Hunter
by tarsus4survivor
Summary: AU in which Castiel Novak is a hunter and finds himself running repeatedly into a reckless duo, the Winchesters. And accidentally joins them at some point.
1. Chapter 1

Cas is scouting out the house. It's a ghost, he's sure of it. He can see a flash of white past one of the windows.

Something comes rumbling up the gravel drive. Cas squints over, ducking down in the seat of his car and trying to squeeze into the shadows.

It's a muscle car rumbling up, long and black and probably old as hell but it still looks new.

Someone monstrously tall unfolds from the passenger side, shoes scuffing on the gravel. Someone dark-haired gets out on the driver's side. He pulls a gun from his jeans and Cas has to hold back a sigh. Hunters.

Maybe he'll let them handle it. They go into the house. It seems to swallow them whole, and there's no noise or visual for almost ten minutes. Then there's the crack of a gunshot and almost simultaneously, the front door is blown backwards and the tall man is thrown twenty feet from the house. Something blasted him through the door. Cas barrels out of the car, turning the safety off his gun, cursing under his breath. Freakin' incompetent hunters.

The man is moving only slightly, and as Cas gets closer, he can see blood pooling beneath him. Ah, shit. A white wispy form comes screeching through the door and Cas pounds her with rock salt. She disappears. He crouches next to the man, eyes on the house, "Where's your partner?"

The man has long hair framing a face shadowed in darkness. He's squinting up at Cas, obviously not sure if he can trust him. He sits up with a grimace and Cas can see the moment he decides he needs the help. "He was… in the basement."

"You morons split up?!"

The man flinches, shifting weakly, pressing a hand to his lower back. Cas rolls his eyes. "Whatever." He pulls his spare gun because it looks like tall guy lost his. "Here. Don't bleed out. I'll go get him. Get to the car if you can."

The man puts a hand on his arm and Cas wrenches away, glaring. The man holds up his hands. "Sorry, but there's like five ghosts in there. I'm coming with you."

Cas purses his lips. He hadn't been expecting that many. Backup could be useful. "Fine," he says. And against his better judgement, adds, "Stay behind me."

The man shoves to his feet, and Cas heads toward the hole where the front door used to be, gun aimed down at the ground. He pulls it up as they cross the threshold. The house is new but it looks and feels old, wallpaper peeling from the walls, the couch falling apart, the ceiling covered in unidentifiable stains. Every footstep creaks and Cas wonders how he didn't hear it from outside. He can hear tall guy walking behind him, steps uneven—maybe he hurt his leg when he was thrown.

They travel over threadbare rugs coming apart at the seams and further into the house. There's no sign of ghost activity. The stairs leading to the basement are in sight. Cas walks carefully toward them.

"Can you hurry?" Tall guy asks, voice tight.

"If your partner's not already dead, he can last another thirty seconds." But Cas picks up his pace, because anxiety is eating away at his insides. This is strange.

The basement is empty. Cas's face finds its near-permanent frown. "You said he was down here."

"He was." Tall guy is looking into the corners of the room, under the chairs, places where that man couldn't possibly fit. Cas keeps both hands on his gun because he's not an idiot and something is screaming at him.

There's a muted gunshot. Cas bobs his head as tall guy jerks. "Check that wall."

"It's fake." Tall guy slides it open and there's another room, flashing with light, and three more shots pop off in succession. Tall guy barrels in. Cas stands by the edge of the opening and shoots where he knows it's safe to. A ghost appears behind him with a shriek and throws him into the room. He hits the opposite wall and falls down it with a grunt. The room grows steadily darker as the ghost moves the fake wall back into place, other ghosts zapping outside the room or fading as Tall and Dark-hair shoot them. Cas tightens his grip on his gun and helps.

Dark-hair is trying to hold the wall open, but a ghost puts a hand on his chest and he flies backwards, right into Tall and they both crash to the ground. The wall closes. The room is completely dark. Cas stays still, waiting to see how the other two men respond.

One of them is swearing, too low in pitch to be Tall. "It's freakin' witches, man. They're witch ghosts. This place used to be a coven."

Cas holds back a sigh. Of course it did.

"You okay?" Tall guy asks. Cas can hear them shuffling about in the dark.

"Busted my shoulder. You?"

"Cut up my back a little." Tall's feet pound the floor. Cas can tell because his steps are uneven. "Hey other guy, where'd you go, you okay?"

"What other guy?"

"He probably means me," Cas gravels out. He can hear Dark-hair's feet scuffing backward rapidly. Cas can't help the smile.

"Who's your friend, Sam?"

So Tall's name is Sam.

"I'm a hunter," Cas says, and at the same time, Sam says, "I don't know."

"He found me outside," Sam continues. "Came into the house to help me get you."

Cas shuffles to his feet, careful with his movements not to make too much noise. He finds the wall with his fingers and trails around two corners until he's at the fake one. He presses at it. Someone pads up to his left—not Sam.

"Uh… other guy?"

"What?" Cas grits the word out, trying to push the wall open.

"I already tried that."

"I didn't." Cas shoves harder. "Help me."

Sam comes up on Cas's other side. Their shoulders brush. Cas jerks away. "Ever hear of personal space?"

"Calm down, jeez, it's not like I can see where you are. You said you wanted help."

Hands scrape the wall on his left, then more on his right. Cas shuffles forward, fingers feeling for the coarseness of the wall.

They start to shove it, but it doesn't move. After a long moment, Cas hears Dark-hair pull back.

"I don't think it can be opened from this side."

Cas sighs. "I saw a vent in the ceiling, just past this wall. If Tall guy, er, Sam, could help me up, I can get it open and work my way around."

Dark-hair huffs a laugh. "Tall guy."

"Shut up, Dean."

"Dean. Well, now I don't have to call you 'idiot who got himself caught guy.'"

Sam snorts.

"Hey," Dean whines, "both of you are in here with me."

Cas ignores him. "A boost, Sam."

Sam touches his shoulder and Cas flinches. "I'm right in front of you." Sam shifts into a crouch, "Give me your foot."

"And what's your name?" Dean asks

Cas feels blindly for Sam and manages to get a foot into his cupped hands, grabbing onto the man's shoulders as Sam lifts him. "You can call me Cas."

"That short for Cassie?"

"You wish." Cas's hands skitter over the vent. "Found it. I think it's big enough." He pulls his blade and starts twisting the screws with it. He pulls the cover off, throws it into the corner. "Lift me higher." Sam grunts but does and Cas worms himself into the vent.

A voice echoes up to him. "Hey! No way you're going alone. What, are you planning to ditch us?"

"You're welcome to come."

Dean growls. "Sam, give me a boost. We'll come round and open the wall for you."

"Which is exactly what I said I'd do already."

"Shut up. I've only known you for two seconds. Would you trust me to help you?"

"Twelve minutes and no, probably not."

"Exactly." Cas can hear them shuffling down below him, hear Sam breathing steadily.

"You're heavier than he is," Sam says.

"Shut up, it's muscle. Thought you'd been working out."

Dean's voice grows louder—closer, and then Cas can hear his hands ghosting over the ceiling, finding their way into the vent. He pulls himself up with a grunt. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here. I'm gonna start moving now, unless you have any objections."

"Nope, go for it. Be right back, Sam."

"Yeah," says Sam.

Cas and Dean crawl.

"It's freakin' cold in here," Dean mutters.

"Is a ghost house in Wyoming in the middle of February, what'd you expect?"

"Smartass."

"Better a smart ass than a dumb one." Cas turns a corner and there's light ahead. "There's another vent, come on."

"I am."

Cas reaches the vent and hums down at it.

"What?"

"Might be harder to open from the inside."

"No shit, Sherlock, what are you gonna do?"

Cas pulls his blade and pushes at the corners where the screws are. He's wormed two free when the vent grows colder. Cas looks up and frost is climbing up the walls.

"Oh shit."

Cas stabs the blade at the vent, trying to break it open. A white form drifts up in front of him.

"Hurry up, hurry up, hurry—" Dean is shooting her, but there are more ghosts drifting up.

"I'm trying." The vent gets layered with frost and Cas's fingers do as well. He almost drops his blade. Almost. He keeps ahold of it and slams it down and the vent shatters. Cas squeezes forward and drops through it, rolling to the side to avoid getting crushed when Dean hurries to follow.

The ghosts don't follow, and it puts Cas on edge. He finds his feet, fingers working over each other to clear the frost. His blade fell. Cas retrieves it, finally getting a look around. The room is small, maybe a closet, but there's a skylight above them.

Dean is staring at him. "You're a lot better-looking than I thought you were based on just the sound of your voice."

"Thanks," Cas deadpans. He tries the door. It's locked. "Shit."

"I got it." Dean scurries forward. Dark hair and leather jacket and green eyes, the barest dusting of freckles across his cheekbones. He's not so bad himself.

He pulls out lockpicks and the door swings open.

"Ghosts or Sam?" Cas asks, blade stowed and gun back in his hand.

"What?"

"Which are we getting first?"

"Sam." Dean doesn't hesitate. He starts toward the basement.

Cas hums. "The ghosts will probably attack us while we're retrieving him."

"Probably."

"We'll end up right back where we started."

Dean is smarter than Cas gives him credit for. "If you wanted to go after the ghosts, why did you even ask?"

"What if I distract the ghosts while you free him?"

"What kind of shit plan is that? You're probably just rearing to bolt."

Cas stares at him, face carefully blank. "Do not insult me," he says, voice low. "If you have a better plan, just say so."

"I don't," Dean growls.

"How much ammo do you have?"

"Two rounds."

Cas tosses him three more. And against his better judgement, also hands him his blade. "For Sam. He's low. I don't know how much time you'll have to reload." He looks pointedly at Dean's green eyes. "I'll want this back, so please don't lose it. Leave it beside my car."

Dean gives him a strange look, eyebrow raised. "Silver doesn't touch ghosts."

"No." Cas is already wandering down the opposite hall. "But that blade will." He doesn't say that it's Enochian metal and works on damn near everything.

"How are you gonna distract them?"

Cas just waves a hand at him, not bothering to turn, "Go."

Cas finds the center of the house and starts rumbling low in his throat. He shoots the walls, shatters vases, upends the furniture. If there's one thing he knows to make ghosts angry, it's to deface what little they think they have.

The ghosts start pouring from the walls quickly enough. Cas fires.

* * *

Sam hates this—waiting uselessly. Dean would hate it worse. He's searching the corners of the room again when the wall scrapes open. A burst of light shows Dean's grinning face. "Come on, Samsquatch."

Sam goes out, looking around. "Where's Cas?"

Dean shrugs. "Upstairs. We gotta go save his ass. Here," he presses a strange three-sided blade into Sam's hand. "He says it works on ghosts."

Sam wraps his fingers around it, frowning, "Silver doesn't—"

"I know. But he said, so whatever. Can't hurt to have."

There's a screech up above them.

Dean starts toward the stairs. He tosses Sam a couple salt rounds. "Load up."

Sam races up behind him, fumbling the gun and blade and rounds a little as he does.

They reach the top and another screech sounds over to their right, followed by the crack of gunshots. They follow the sounds, turning a corner to an open room and there's Cas and the ghosts at the other side of the hallway.

Cas is the most graceful fighter Sam has ever seen. He's in a small space, but he's weaving and twisting and jumping, gun in one hand and blade in the other, and the ghosts are spritzing around him. He rolls below one and comes up shooting at the others, twisting as he rises to thrust the blade through the chest of the one now behind him.

"I thought you said he needed saving," Sam says, running side by side with Dean.

Dean shrugs. "Thought he would."

What sucks for Cas is that he's in a small hallway, walls on two sides, and ghosts can phase through them. So when he dodges one ghost, spinning against a wall and shooting it, one last ghost comes through the wall right through his chest and he goes to his knees with a gasp, but he twists his arm up and stabs the ghost through the chest and it disappears.

Sam and Dean draw to a halt a few feet away. Cas staggers upright, hand on his chest, breath frosting the air. His blade disappears. "They'll start coming back soon."

"Yeah, we know," Dean says.

Cas walks stiffly toward them, "We should find what they're attached to, it's probably here."

"Uh…" Sam just stares at him.

Cas stops in front of him. "What?"

"Maybe we should regroup first. Come at this more organized."

Cas brushes past him. "Feel free to leave. I'm gonna use this time to search. If you do leave, please put my blade near my car." He kneels down, then lays on his stomach, arm reaching beneath a couch. He pulls out a bow made of ribbon, lurches back to his feet. "They freaked when I touched this. Got a lighter?"

"You don't?"

"I have matches, figure a lighter would be easier."

Dean fumbles over his pockets. He tosses him one.

Cas lights the bow aflame over a trashcan. "There are four more," he says, pointing to a box in the corner, "I'm hopin' we get lucky." He burns the rest and the house changes to look new—stains gone, rugs full, walls brightly painted. Cas smirks over at them. He lifts his eyebrows. "That was fun."

Dean stares at him. "Where'd you find this guy, Sam?"

Sam shrugs. "He found me."

Cas walks up to Sam and holds out a hand. Sam drops the strange blade in it.

"Have a nice life, boys." He brushes past them.

"Thanks," says Dean, "For not ditching us."

Cas stops. He turns, "Wasn't an option. Next time, don't split up." He turns back, "And don't step on my case."

That's the first time.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time, the witches are alive.

Cas rolls up to the house, and immediately catches sight of a long black muscle car. He sighs. Hunters. He hates hunters. Not that he isn't one but he's not… Cas sighs. He double checks that his gun has witch bullets, triple checks that he has extra rounds, an extra gun, and both blades, and then he gets out of the car.

Light is flashing in one of the upper windows so Cas runs, throwing the door open and racing up the stairs. Two witches. Can't two hunters handle two witches?

He barrels toward the door of the nearest room—he can hear fighting beyond it—but it's bolted shut. He shoots the lock and shoves it open. Freakishly tall Sam is pinned up against the wall, one witch at his throat. Dean is a pile on the floor against the opposite wall.

Sam's eyes widen when he sees Cas in the doorway.

Cas raises his gun and shoots the witch holding Sam. She reels back with a hiss and Sam find his feet heavily. Cas shoots her again. She drops dead. Cas takes a wary step in to the room. Two witches. There should be two witches.

Sam is coughing, half-hunched, hands at his throat.

"Where's the other one?" Cas asks, loud because for some reason sound is muffled in here.

"Dead," Sam chokes, so Cas stows his gun and strides the few steps toward Dean, hand immediately finding his pulse-point. He's alive, so that's something.

"What happened?"

Sam stumbles his way over. "House was warded against us. They'd spelled the walls or something. Everything came to life."

"I meant, what happened to Dean?"

"Oh." Sam helps Cas roll Dean onto his back. "He got slammed into the wall, hit his head." His voice is hoarse, interspersed with coughs.

Cas watches as Sam checks Dean over shakily, breaths rasping.

"Where are you staying?"

"What?"

"I'll get you there. Where are you staying?"

Sam gives him a strange look. "Didn't you drive?"

Cas shrugs. "Yeah."

"Dean would…" Sam coughs, "be pissed if we left baby—the impala. I can drive okay."

"Or I could drive the impala."

Sam is hoisting at Dean's jacket.

Cas shifts him out of the way and pulls Dean over his shoulder in a fireman carry—Sam is protesting, hands twitching, "Wha?"—Cas stands with a grunt. "You shouldn't be driving," he says, starting toward the stairs.

Sam staggers to his feet and follows, hands hovering. "I can carry him. What are you doing?"

"You just went through an exhausting fight with the house and it's witches attacking you. I didn't."

Cas takes the stairs easily despite the additional weight. The door's already open so he strides out toward the driveway and the long black car, Sam sputtering behind him.

Cas stops a couple feet from the back door. "Little help?"

Sam opens the door mutely, and Cas tilts Dean off his shoulder and onto the seat. Then Cas ducks out of the car and holds his hand out. "Keys?"

Sam gives him a blank, half-confused, half-weirded out stare for a long moment. He shifts past Cas, leaning into the back seat and dipping a hand into one of Dean's pockets. He leans back out. "Uh…" he hesitates, keys hovering over Cas's hand. "What about your car?"

Cas shrugs. "I get a new one every month. There's nothing important in it. I can come back and get it later if I need to." He wiggles his fingers, palm laying open.

Sam's mouth opens and closes. He drops the keys into Cas's hand. "Okay."

Cas smiles. "Get in," he says, already walking around to the driver's side.

Sam closes the backdoor and takes shotgun.

Cas slides in beside him, jamming the keys into the ignition. The car booms to life. Rock music blasts on.

"Driver picks the music," Sam says numbly, voice still hoarse and dry.

Cas turns the volume down a couple notches and doesn't change it. "Love this song," he says, and backs out of the driveway.

"Oh my god," says Sam. He coughs.

"You guys got water?"

Sam shakes his head. "Probably not."

"I'll stop somewhere." Cas drums his hands on the wheel. "Where am I going?"

"Uh… motel. Gardener motel. It's like ten miles. North."

"Sweet."

They make it there without a problem. Sam is out of the car and in the backseat picking up Dean before Cas can protest. "Key's in the glovebox."

Cas reaches over and pulls it open. He pulls out a blue key. There's a fancy 'G' on one side, matching the G in the 'Gardener' sign splayed across the side of the building. The other side says 103–room number, probably.

Cas slides out of the car and peers up at the room numbers. 103 is right in front of them—of course it is, Sam directed his parking. He unlocks the door and pushes it open. Sam brushes past him and lays Dean on the nearest bed—there are two.

Cas shuffles his feet and tosses the key in onto the table, the car key just next to it. "Okay..."

Sam glances briefly up at him, running hands over Dean's head and chest. You're not a vampire, are you?"

Cas squints. "What?"

"You need an invitation?"

Cas gives him a blank face.

Sam quirks his lips and bobs his head. "You haven't breached the doorway."

Cas looks down. He's standing on the mat outside. He looks back up and doesn't move. "Very astute."

Sam bobs his head again, tilting it toward the back wall. "Come on."

Cas steps in immediately, "You need help?" he asks.

Sam shakes his head, eyes down because he's taking off Dean's shoes. "You don't have a car."

"Again, your powers of observation are—"

Sam interrupts him. "You got somewhere you need to be?"

"...No." Cas watches Sam carefully.

"Motel's full up, we got the last room."

Cas gives him a blank face. "Okay…"

"So where are you gonna sleep?"

Cas shrugs. "Wherever. Ten miles is not too far. I'll probably go back, get my car."

Sam stops where he's taking off Dean's jacket. "You're gonna walk back?"

"Yeah. Nothing I haven't done before."

Sam resumes his movements, head shaking. "No way. Could be monsters out there."

Cas snorts. His lips quirk. "There's always monsters out there." He pulls open his trenchcoat, revealing a gun, taking out a blade. "I'm all stocked up." He drops his coat and claps his hands. "So… yeah." He turns, one foot out the doorway.

"Wait!" says Sam, taking a step after him. "I, uh… need help."

Cas turns and raises an eyebrow. "With what? Sleeping? Believe me, walking back to my car is the least of my problems. Don't worry about me. I'm glad I could help." He's back out the door.

Sam takes two strides and then he's right next to Cas, touching his back.

Cas flinches away, twisting to face him. "What?" His voice is a little strained.

Sam pulls back a little. "You could stay. Here."

"Or I could hotwire your neighbor's car."

Sam gives him a bitch face. "I can drive you back in the morning to pick up your car. The one you said it was no problem leaving."

"It wasn't. It's not. I'm good. Thanks. I'll go."

"Cas,"—Cas stills—"Don't be a moron."

"You remembered my name, wow. Did it take you that long or…"

"That's not gonna work," says Sam. He snatches Cas's sleeve and when Cas doesn't flinch, he tugs him back over the doorway.

Cas lets him. "What's not?"

"Deflecting. Insulting. Making it awkward and tense. That's exactly what Dean would do." Sam tugs him in further, closing the door and then leading Cas over to the chairs at the table. Cas sits. "Is that what I was doing?"

"Yep." Sam leaves Cas and trails back over to Dean, nudging him, trying to wake him.

"He just hit his head?"

"Yeah. He did wake up for a moment, after, but then he hit his head again."

"He'll be up in a few hours."

Sam nods.

* * *

Dean bolts upright, eyes flicking around the room. They land on Cas. "Where's Sam?"

"Store. Your phone's on the table. Feel free to call."

Dean's head twists. He grabs the phone, pulls it up to his ear. "Sam, you okay?"

Cas watches Dean relax. "Yeah. You're at the store?" His eyes latch onto Cas. "Why?" Dean relaxes a little more. "Okay. Don't get rabbit food. I'll see you." He sets the phone back on the table.

Cas closes the book Sam lent him and stands. "While now that you're up, I'll just—"

Dean also stands, "Sam says you're not allowed to leave." He stretches out his back.

Cas frowns. "Of course I am."

"He wants to drive you back to your car so you don't have to walk."

Cas rolls his eyes. "Of course he does. But I'm a grown man. If I don't walk places, how am I supposed to stay fighting fit?" He starts toward the door.

Dean moves to block him. "Look, all I know is Sam told me not to let you leave yet, maybe he wants to talk to you. Exchange numbers or something."

Cas purses his lips. "Sure."

"Dude, just wait 'til he gets back, okay?"

Cas glares. "Whatever." He sits back down. "How's your head?"

"Peachy," says Dean. "When did you show up?"

"Oh, about 24 years ago," Cas deadpans.

Dean gives him a bitch-face. "Funny." He rubs at his head, grimacing. "Why are you _here_, _now_?"

Cas shrugs. "We crossed cases." He bobs his head. "Pills are on the table."

Dean squints at the container and then downs a few. The mattress groans as he lays back down, arm over his eyes.

When Sam comes back, he drives Cas out to his car. They do not exchange numbers. Cas gets in his rental and drives away. He'll go farther this time, all the way up to Rhode Island, maybe. Something in the news lately about rabbits dropping dead and blood pools in fields.

And Cas doesn't know why, but while driving off it feels as though he's left something unfinished.


	3. Chapter 3

It's bright outside, and Castiel has to squint against the glare. It makes him feel like _he's _glaring. He flicks another glance at the paper, dry in his hand. _241 Scarecrow Lane_.

Scarecrow lane, really?

Cas shakes his head but looks up and double checks—241 Scarecrow Lane. There are webs around the corners of the house, and they look like stakes tying a tent to the ground. Subtle, arachne. Really, really subtle. God, people are such idiots.

Cas has his blade and gun. What he doesn't have is a machete. Lost it. No, he didn't lose it. A gang of eerily short vampires kamikazed it with a concrete wall and a steel hammer.

So Cas pulls away and finds the nearest store likely to sell one. It's closed. And the next one and the next one and screw Sundays in small towns. He has an axe. He'll make do.

Cas drives back to 241 Scarecrow Lane, shoving the car into park and yanking out the keys. This arachne has been turning people for miles around—lucky it's a small town or Cas would have a whole lot more to deal with. Best thing to do now is wait for someone else to come to the house or for the arachne to come out. Cas doesn't care today. Doesn't have the patience or calm.

They turned a little kid. Several little kids. Usually they go after older victims, but not this one. Cas wants to get this over and done with.

He's slow walking up to the house. Careful. Axe held in both hands, other weapons stowed in his coat—most of them useless. There's a string attached to the axe that Cas slides his wrist into—helps keep them from getting separated. He kicks the door open with a burst of splintered wood, hoping it will bring the arachne crawling out and into plain sight.

There are less webs in the house than he's expecting. And a fallen picture, framed with the woman this arachne used to be. The glass is cracked, the frame starting to collect dust.

Castiel scans the room carefully, braced for a hit from any direction—it forces him to move slower, keep his stance wide and his grip firm.

There's a skittering of footsteps to his right and Cas turns, axe lifted, but doesn't see anything.

More pattering steps on his other side. Cas turns again, only partway. The only thing over there is the couch.

Castiel works his way over to it. He steps up on top of it and looks down, axe pulled back, ready to attack. It's a child. He lowers the axe a little. Please, god, don't be an arachne. The skin and eyes look normal.

"Hello," Cas says, voice gruff.

The child tilts their head, peering up at him, sitting cross-legged behind the couch.

"Do you have a name?"

The child stares at Cas blank-faced.

Cas steps off the couch and moves around it, eyes flicking up to check the rest of the room—clear. "Do you have parents?"

"I have me," he says. He can't be older than ten.

"How long have you been here?" Cas asks. He's stiff and wary, hands fisting around the wood handle of the axe, eyes pulling up every few moments.

"I live here."

There are more rattling footsteps—sounding from the hallway this room opens into.

Cas drifts away from the child, desperately hoping they're not an arachne. He steps past another broken picture—mother, father, child. The child now behind him. He curses. Intel said it was only the woman here. Now might be the time to go back out and wait.

But Castiel trudges on, listening for footsteps behind him, looking for movement in front of him.

There are no footsteps, so Cas isn't expecting the hand on his shoulder. He spins with the axe, but another hand catches the handle and holds it back. Cas gets a glimpse of the face. It's Dean. Dean Winchester. Castiel squints. "What are you doing here?" He yanks the axe back and Dean's hand falls from his shoulder.

"Crossed cases," Dean says.

Cas flicks a glance over to the couch—the child hasn't moved. Then he looks around the rest of the room. "Where's Sam?"

Dean shrugs. "Somewhere."

Cas nods slowly, unsettled and not entirely sure that it's because he's waiting to be attacked by arachne. He keeps the axe raised, eyes narrowed. "I didn't see your car."

"Parked around back." Dean slides past Castiel and his head tilts up to look at a web just above his head and the light makes his eyes flare pale. Shapeshifter.

Cas removes one hand from the axe and pulls out his enochian blade.

Not-Dean is walking down the hallway and Cas follows warily, trying to get close enough to stab him through the heart. He's so focused on it that he misses the rush of footsteps behind him. The child is an arachne. They slam into Cas so hard that Cas flies forward into the shapeshifter and goes down in a tangle of limbs. The shifter shoves him off with enough force to crash him into the wall of the hallway. Cas hits his head against it and for a moment the world goes fuzzy.

There's a sharp, jagged pain in his arm and Cas blinks to clear his vision. The axe cut into his right arm. A bit too deep for comfort.

The shifter is fighting the arachne. Cas should wait, see who wins. He doesn't care for waiting today. Dean and Sam are close by if they're not dead. Must be if the shifter knew Cas. He should find them.

Cas breaks forward instead, hefting up the axe. He dropped his blade at some point but the other one is still in his coat. And it should be enough to kill a shifter. The arachne feels like the more serious threat. Cas waits just long enough for an opening and then he jerks forward and swings the axe into the child's throat—it's a strange angle, but Cas gets a clean cut. The arachne crumples downward and now Cas is face to face with the shifter.

He unwraps the string around his wrist and throws the axe behind him, pulling his blade while the shifter watches. That might have been a bad idea, now Cas thinks about it. There might be more arachne here—the woman almost definitely. He probably should have kept that axe closer. Too late now.

Cas lifts the blade.

The shifter shuffles back a step. "I mean no harm."

"Right," Cas says, and makes sure the shifter knows he doesn't believe him with the tone of his voice.

"I was after the arachne, same as you." The shifter is staring down at the corpse, using Dean's face and Dean's voice.

"And Dean? Sam?"

The shifter shrugs. He turns a little, staring down at the floor.

Cas keeps the blade up because he's not an idiot.

Except for the part where he is. The shifter has a gun. Dean's probably, and he moves so fast that all Cas catches is a glimpse of metal before the gunshot is cracking into his leg. It topples him to the ground and then the shifter is right on top of him. He's pinning Cas's arm down so he can't get the blade up. Cas is gonna die here. He shoves and kicks and wriggles but can't get free. The shifter punches him. One solid punch to the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.

He's tied up when he wakes. Bound to a chair and gagged. In a closet, it looks like, someplace small and dark and the only light is from the slit of the doorframe. Damn it.

The rope around his wrists is thin, more like string than rope but there are so many layers that Cas can't break them off. The sting cuts into his wrists. He tries worming his way free instead. His wrists and legs stay bound but he manages to work his jaw free of the gag. Not that he's about to start screaming, so it doesn't matter much anyway.

The walls are thin. Must be. Something slams into the one on his right from the other side.

"Son of a bitch!" Cas hears the swearing from the same place.

Cas jump-shuffles the chair over to the wall, leg throbbing—shot, he remembers. Cas slams against it. "Hello?"

"Son of a bitch!" Even louder. There's a vent, Cas thinks, connecting the rooms. He can feel airflow by his legs.

Blood is in various states of dried and drying, running down the sleeve of Cas's arm where the axe cut into it. He should shift around so he can slam his other side into the wall. Nah. Too much work. He shoves into it. "I'm glad I don't sound like a girl, because then you'd be screaming 'daughter of a bitch', right?"

There are muffled sounds. Scraping and thudding and murmured words.

Cas might not be talking loud enough for the person on the other side to hear.

"I'm talking to you!" He shouts, slamming into the wall again, hoping the shifter doesn't also hear and choose to walk in.

"I'm not talking back!"

Cas rolls his eyes and scoots away from the wall. "You just did," he mumbles. He squints again into the corner of the room, looking for anything useful. Screw shifters. Shifters suck.

There are some boxes on the floor. Taped down, but if Cas does this right he can fix that easily enough. He jerks the chair over to one. And then very carefully falls down sideways next to it. Oh who is he kidding, there's no way to fall carefully with limbs bound. He crashes to the floor with a groan. His fingers graze the side of the box—arms bound behind him so he has to manage with touch alone.

It's a tall box. Too heavy to turn onto it's side and too tall to reach the top. All Castiel's fingers do is graze the side. So Cas worms his way over to the wall and shoves up and into it. The top of the chair slams through the plaster after a few tries, a couple inches off the ground. He slowly works his way back upright, using his limbs to push off the floor and shoving up the wall. Then he scoots over to the box and manages to jerk it toward the wall.

This time he tilts down carefully, leaning the chair against the wall and finding the edge of the tape with his fingers. He peels it up. And it's slow work, but he untilts and scoots and retilts and untilts and inch by inch he works the tape off.

There are weights inside. Lifting weights for a bar. Frustration grinds its way through Cas's jaw and limbs. He finds the next box. Works it open the same way. More weights.

Cas kicks the best he can at the boxes and finds one that's lighter. He works it open. There are trophies inside. And it might be a long shot, but one of them might be strong enough and pointy enough to cut through the string.

In the end, it's a fishing trophy that does it. Swordfish, thank god. The fishing rod on the other one snapped before it accomplished anything.

Cas gets his hands free. God, his arm hurts. From there it's simple enough to untie the rest of his bonds.

The door is locked. Screw Cas's life. This sucks. He wants to kick the door but doesn't. Not an idiot. Not gonna give the shifter any sign that he's worked himself free. Not that slamming his chair into the wall wouldn't have brought them running already but you never know.

He opens the rest of the boxes but they're all useless. He takes the end of the snapped off fishing rod. Could come in handy, maybe. There's no lock to pick.

Cas glances over at the wall. The room beside him is silent. He knocks. "Still not talking to me?"

"Not unless you got something great to say."

The voice is familiar. And Cas is too damn done to worry about shifters and traps and just for once he wants to assume that this is another guy captured just like he is because that makes things so much easier somehow. "I'm about to kick the door down and bust out of here. You want in?"

"Yes," they growl.

So Cas kicks the door down. It takes more tries than he'd like to admit because he has to kick with his hurt leg but he sure as hell would rather do that than stand on it. It splinters open and Cas slinks out of the room and ends up in a hallway. There's no door next to him. He has to work his way around the house to find one, his leg threatening to stumble him into the wall with every step.

He can't kick this door down because it opens the wrong way. There's no lock to pick. Just a nice simple little turning one. The door swings toward him.

It's Dean. Freakin' Dean Winchester. Of course it is. That was so obvious. Cas is a moron. "Hello, Dean."

Dean's eyes widen. "Cas," he exclaims. "Dude, if I knew you were someone I knew I wouldn't have shut down on you like that."

"Whatever makes you feel better." Cas limps into the room and walks around to untie Dean's hands. "Where's Sam?"

"Not captured, hopefully." Dean's head is bleeding. A cut above the eyebrow. The joints of his wrist are sticking out strangely. Swollen.

"You break your wrist?"

"Maybe."

Dean stands once he's free, rolling his neck, stretching his back.

"How long you been here?" Cas asks.

Dean is eyeing the door solemnly. "Not long."

"Awesome. Thanks for useless response." Cas limps toward the door, bracing his hand on the wall to take some of the weight off his leg.

Dean follows, broken wrist cradled to his chest. "Dude, what is your problem?"

"I got freakin' captured, that's my problem." Cas has no idea where he's going but Dean makes no move to lead them another way so Castiel just keeps wandering, leg throbbing more and more, growing stiff. He'll have to dig the bullet out or find a natural way to explain a gunshot wound to a hospital. _I was hunting alone in the suburbs, officer. 'Coon infestation. Rebounded off a barrel and hit my leg. Next time I'll just use poison, I promise._

"So did I, don't see me throwin' a fit."

"Yeah, because 'I'm not talking to you' wasn't at all childish." Cas shakes his head.

Dean is trailing along beside him, his form rigid. "I didn't know who you were."

"You're a jerk."

"You're the jerk."

Cas turns his head and takes half a moment to check the wound in his arm. He should wrap it, probably. But that feels like a lot of work for some reason and Cas doesn't care today. If he bleeds out, he bleeds out. He keeps working his way forward, weight on the wall. "You don't happen to know the way out of here, do you?"

"Yeah, I have no clue." Dean clicks his tongue. "How'd you get free, anyway? What, they didn't tie you up as well as they did me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yeah, I would. That's why I asked. And what a useless response you gave."

Cas glances over at Dean. "Somebody's bitter."

Dean gives a bitch-face, but his eyes slide past Castiel and into an open room. "We should be looking around for weapons, shouldn't we?"

"Do whatever makes you happy. I just wanna get out of here." Cas's leg jolts beneath him, unresponsive and stiff and not at all happy to be holding his weight. He jerks it forward.

Dean squints down. "You get shot?"

Cas doesn't bother to look over at him. "Yeah, with _your_ gun. Thanks for that."

Dean clicks his tongue again. "Somebody's bitter."

"You're not all that creative, are you?" The wall opens and Cas has to shove forward without it's support. His leg buckles and he goes down to one knee with a grunt.

Dean sighs. "Gimme your arm," he mutters, reaching down with the arm not tucked tight and immobile against his side. He hauls Cas up, pulling his arm over his shoulder and taking some of his weight, sliding his own arm around Cas's waist.

It's the axed arm across Dean's shoulder, and the material is sticking to Dean's shirt and neck.

"It's all bloody," he grumbles. "How many times did you get shot?"

"Once."

"Thank you again for the helpful response." They wind around a turn and to a door that looks promising.

"Hey, I answered. If you wanted more, then ask for more."

Cas reaches out to twist the handle and the door swings open. Cold night air greets them. Cas lets out a breath as they stumble outside.

"Where we headed?" Dean asks, tugging Cas forward before the response.

"Hell if I know. Find a car. Phone. Something useful."

"Sam would be useful."

Cas grits his teeth as he limps down the concrete steps. "Swell. But we need a car or phone first, don't we?"

Dean frowns. "Why are you so harsh all the time?"

"I'm not. Why are you so stupid?" Cas scans around them, looking for a car. They're not at the house the arachne was in.

"Chicks dig it."

"Stupid chicks." They can't be far, though, right? Shifter had to be connected to Dean to read his thoughts like that. "You know where we are?"

"America."

"God, you're useless."

Dean shifts his grip. "I could let go of you, you know. Then we'd see who's really useless."

"It'd still be you," Cas assures him. The road glows bright and headlights flash toward them.

Dean swears. He pulls Cas over to the side of the house. They press against the wall, trying to stay out of sight.

Shifters can read thoughts. They're screwed. Screwed six ways to Sunday.

Castiel pulls out the trophy fishing rod. It's sharp. Not silver, though. Or maybe it is, who the hell knows? It's all he has.

And it _is_ the shifter. Turning the corner of the house and finding them in moments. Still with Dean's face.

"That's not creepy," Dean mutters.

"Not at all," Cas agrees. He shoves the fishing rod into Dean's palm because it'll be more useful to him. Cas will be too slow with his leg.

Dean takes it.

The shifter snaps forward. He tackles Dean in one fluid movement, and Dean's hands are scrabbling against the form, stabbing with the broken fishing rod as close as he can to the heart and throat.

Cas tries to haul the shifter off but one wayward arm sends him flying. He lands in a sprawl five feet away. He starts to push up.

Someone monstrously tall barrels around the corner of the house, silver flashing in their hand. They leap on top of the shifter and stab him through the back, must hit the heart because the shifter chokes and tips and crashes to the ground.

Cas very wisely chooses to slump back down.

"Sam," breathes Dean. "Thank god."

Sam hauls Dean up and into a hug. "I told you not to do anything stupid."

"What can I say? He caught me by surprise." Dean pats Sam on the back as he pulls away. He walks toward Cas and holds out his good hand.

Cas reaches up to take it. "Sam _was_ useful," he comments.

Dean huffs. "Told you."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Continuation of last chapter

There are some places you just don't want to be. Apparently, stuck in the backseat of a rumbling old car while two idiot brothers 'talk' up front is one of them.

"You can admit it, Sam. It was cathartic to stab me." Dean wanted to drive. He's pissed that Sam didn't let him drive. He reaches out to adjust the radio and Sam slaps his hand away.

Dean growls.

Sam rolls his eyes, Cas can see it in the rearview mirror. "Of course it wasn't. I didn't even realize it was you."

Cas hums. "So it's a good thing Dean wasn't on top and the shifter below him, huh?"

Sam rolls a shoulder, glancing out the window, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. "Yeah," he says.

Dean changes the music while he's turned away.

Sam changes it back. "It's your rule, Dean."

"But you wouldn't let me drive."

"Deal with it."

Cas sits still and weary in the backseat. "So if you could just drop me off at 241 Scarecrow Lane, that'd be great." Assuming, of course, that his car is still there.

Sam shakes his head. "Cops are rollin' all over the place."

Cas slumps in the seat with a groan. He has a headache and his arm and leg are killing him. "Just mail me to Pennsylvania or something, then. Drop me off at the nearest gas station, whatever."

Sam flicks a squint into the rearview. "You planning to hotwire somebody's car?"

"Like you wouldn't." Cas picks at his sleeve, peeling it away from his arm high up near the shoulder. The bleeding has stopped.

"You're covered in blood," says Dean.

"Which makes people that much more likely to abandon their cars." Cas pats down his shirt—stupid shifter took his trenchcoat, who the hell knows where his weapons ended up. "You guys have a coat hanger or something I can borrow?"

"Uh…" says Sam.

"Dude." Dean turns in his seat. "We're not going to drop you off at the gas station."

"A little ways away then, so it draws less attention to you. I can walk just fine."

Dean laughs. Honest to god laughs.

Cas glares at him.

"I can walk just fine," Dean mocks, still half-laughing. He turns back around to face front. "I call bullshit. You got shot in the leg, you freak."

"I'm well aware." Cas leans forward, eyes thin. "You're calling me a liar, right? Mr. Idiot who got himself captured again."

"So did you!"

"But I got us out." Cas's leg is one big ball of pain. The bullet's still in because he can't find an exit wound. He pushes down on it.

"Only because he didn't tie you up as well," says Dean.

"I never said that," Cas growls. "Do not insult me."

"Dude, chill out, seriously. And stop leaning against the back of the seat, you're gonna stain it."

Cas hums darkly as he leans forward. "So where are we headed?"

Dean turns his head to look at Sam.

Sam flicks a glance over his shoulder at Cas. "You're not bleeding out or anything, are you?"

"I'll die of boredom first."

"Great," says Dean, "Is that gonna be anytime soon because I'm really getting tired of—"

"Dean," says Sam, cutting him off with a sharp look.

Dean rolls his eyes and glares out the window.

"We'll stop someplace in a few hours," Sam says.

"Great." Cas plucks at his sleeve with one hand, the other still pressing down on the wound in his leg. "You guys got water or first aid or something? A towel?"

Sam frowns. He pulls the car over.

Dean sighs.

"Don't be like that," Sam says. "We've got to set your wrist, anyway. Unless you want to pop in to an emergency clinic."

Dean shrugs. "I wouldn't be against it. Clinics have the good drugs. And it's just dislocated anyway."

"Sure it is." Sam gets out of the car and walks past Cas to the trunk. He comes back with a handful of items. He throws a bundle of fabric at Dean. "You're head's bleeding."

Cas tilts forward, peering at what Sam grabbed.

Sam shoves a first aid kit in his face.

Cas keeps it from falling with a grunt, leaning back and setting it on the seat beside him. "Water?"

Cas gets handed a half-empty bottle. He pulls his leg up onto the seat and rips the hole in the fabric wider, glad he's ambidextrous and can do this with his left hand because his right arm hurts like hell.

Sam is grabbing Dean's arm in the frontseat.

Cas untwists the bottle.

"Don't get water on my seats."

"Are you friggin' kidding me?"

"Don't get water on my seats, Cas. Blood either."

"I hate you." Cas shoves the door open and tips outside with the kit and bottle, ending up on dirt and weeds. "This is so much more sanitary," he mumbles, slamming the door behind him, half hoping they'll leave him.

He sanitizes his hands as best he can and then grabs some tweezers. But he waits, expecting Dean to scream and not wanting to be startled while he's digging around for a bullet.

Dean doesn't scream. He curses, punching the dashboard of the car.

Sam spills out of the front just as Cas is about to slide the tweezers into the wound. Sam's face twists. "What are you doing?"

Cas gives him a blank look. "What does it look like?" The wound is near his knee. Cas leans against the car and shifts his leg a little, trying to get a better angle.

"Dude."

Cas braces. "I'll be back in the car in a second, sorry if I'm holding you up."

"Dude," Sam says again, lower. "Don't—"

Cas ignores him, pushing the tweezers into the wound and setting his jaw.

Sam drops down next to him. "I would have done it."

Cas hits the bullet and arches his head back to hold in the groan as it shifts and sends pain firing through him. He hunches back over after a moment, adjusting the tweezers, trying to grab it without hitting anything else.

"You got it?"

Cas nods, carefully pulling the bullet up and out.

Sam takes the tweezers from him as soon as they're clear of the skin and the bullet's not liable to fall back in. He shakes his head. "You need me to stitch?"

"I got it, thanks." Cas dumps water onto a cloth and cleans his leg.

"Your arm is hurt."

"I have two."

"Okay."

Cas waits for Sam to go back in the car. He doesn't. Sam sits down in the dirt and stares.

Cas's fingers fall still. "Could you not?"

"Not what?"

Cas narrows his eyes. "Watch me. Don't you have to tend to Dean or something?"

"He's about as likely to kill me as he is to let me help."

"I don't believe that for a second." Cas readies the needle and thread but hesitates just above the skin. He pulls back and looks at Sam, "Listen, I'm not real comfortable with you sittin' there like that. Do me a favor and get back in the car?"

Sam lifts his hands in surrender. "Fine." He climbs back into the car.

Cas stitches his leg and then arm, pouring water over them to clean them off before he gets back in. He can bandage as they drive.

Dean flicks a glance over his shoulder at him. "Good?"

"Yeah, go."

They get to the motel in one piece.

Sam takes one look at the both of them and clicks his mouth. "Stay in the car." He lingers on Cas. "Maybe duck down a little." He slips out.

Cas slumps in the seat.

When Sam comes back he goes to the trunk first. He tosses Dean a clean shirt. Tosses Cas one too. Cas just looks at it while Dean shrugs off his blood-stained shirt and puts on the new one.

"Do you have a jacket of something instead?" Cas asks.

Sam gives him a strange look.

Cas shrugs his head and shakes it off. "Nevermind," he mutters, and he pulls his shirt off and quickly replaces it.

Sam clicks his tongue. "Just go in fast, I don't think we have pants that would fit you."

"Fast." Cas shifts his leg experimentally, eyebrows pinching. "Right."

Dean just shakes his head and gets out.

Sam sighs and follows.

Cas is right behind them, taking short strides but walking quickly, barely limping.

Sam pops out early the next morning. When he pops back in he throws something at Cas.

Cas catches it and nearly falls out of his chair in the process. "Would you stop that?"

"Bought you some pants."

"Nice." Cas gets up and goes to the bathroom to put them on. He walks slowly back out, trying not to limp. "Leaving? I can check you out."

Dean looks over at him. "Us, you mean."

"Yeah, right, sure, us. Keys?" Cas holds his hand out.

Sam throws them at him.

Cas catches them in his left and walks out.

There's a rigidness to the manager of the motel that Castiel doesn't like. A scrutiny of Cas that makes him unsettled. He's a short man, with eyes so dark they almost look black. Almost. He's as pale as death. Cas coughs as he hands the keys over just to be safe, "Christo."

The manager glares but his eyes don't flare black. He sets the keys down slow and deliberate. "Thought so," he mutters.

Cas leans forward, "What?"

"Hunters." The man rolls his shoulder.

Cas shakes his head a little. "Um… what?"

"You're hunters."

Cas widens his eyes and shakes his head, "I don't…" he squints. "Like deer hunters?" A bad feeling is crawling down his spine.

"Killers."

"No, I can assure you we're not—"

"Save it. Get the hell out."

Cas gets out. Limps out.

The impala is idling, waiting for him. Cas slides into the back, frowning. "Did you talk to that manager?"

Sam turns around. "Yeah, why? Something wrong with the payment?"

"No." Cas tilts his head. "Did he seem off to you?"

Sam shrugs. "Not really. Tired, maybe, but nothing weird. Why?"

Cas's frown deepens. "He called us hunters and killers and didn't seem glad about it."

Dean taps on the armrest a few times, looking back at Cas. "He say anything else?"

"To get out. He was nicer than you, actually, so forget it. I'm just… creeped me out, is all."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Dude was a fat guy barely five feet tall. He scared you?"

Cas shakes his head. "Forget about it. Get me back to my car."

Dean hums. "Called us hunters?"

"That was my fault, probably," Cas admits. "I may or may not have coughed 'Christo' at him."

Dean huffs a laugh. "Seriously?"

"That guy was freaky."

"Fat guy," Sam repeats, "Five feet tall, if that." He's finally reversing the car out of the parking space.

"He wasn't that fat," Cas says.

"At least three hundred pounds."

Cas frowns. "One fifty. At most."

Sam shakes his head. "No way."

Dean is looking between the two of them. "Sure you got the same guy?"

"Phil Taylor," Sam and Cas say at the same time.

Dean hums. "Well I'm with Cas, I don't like this. Don't be afraid to give her some gas, Sam."

"You don't think we should check this out?"

"I think I don't wanna deal with this when I was tied up for the better part of yesterday and I have a headache the size of Texas. Dude's not hurtin' anybody so far as we know. Skedaddle us outta here."

Sam hums and pulls out.

Dean tosses a fast-food bag back at Cas. "Got you some breakfast."

Cas stows the salt packets in his pocket.

The car breaks down three miles away when they're out on a lonely stretch of dirt road. Cas buries his face in the seat in front of him and tries not to groan. He only takes a moment, and then he's shoving out through the door, "I'll walk to my car and find a pay phone somewhere and send a tow truck out for you guys."

Dean shoves out after him, walking around to the hood. "I don't even know where to start with that." He opens the hood to peer down at the engine. "First off, you walking to your car with that leg is gonna take the better part of the day, no way I'm waiting that long. Second, I can probably fix whatever went wrong if you just give me a few minutes. Third, if all else fails, we can call for a tow truck from here. Believe me, Sam always has service. It's a little freaky." Dean fiddles with something.

Cas has zero understanding of car mechanics so he has no idea what Dean's looking at but it's making Dean frown deeper and deeper.

"It's gotta be the fuel pump," Dean mutters, and he heads around to the trunk.

Cas goes to watch him and gets drawn away by a cloud of dust in the distance. Another car.

He expects it to barrel past but instead it rolls to a stop.

Cas finds himself patting down pockets, searching for weapons he no longer has.

Sam gets out of the car, a gun in hand. Cas slides closer to him, eyes on the foreign car. It's a truck, big and black.

Phil Taylor steps out. He looks just like he did when Cas saw him before.

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean pops up from where he'd been half buried in the trunk.

Cas bobs his head, "Hey, Phil, we were just getting out of town."

Dean walks around to where Sam and Cas are standing, nodding, "Big guy here needed a pee break. So you can just head back into that truck and keep on going. Won't ever see us again."

Phil narrows his eyes and takes a few steps forward. Metal glints in his hand.

Sam reaches back into the car, careful and slow, eyes on Phil. He grabs a knife and hands it to Cas discreetly.

Cas's breath frosts the air. "You have salt rounds in there?" he asks Sam quietly.

Sam shakes his head.

Phil takes another step forward.

Cas ducks his gaze to watch his feet as he steps out from around the car, then flicks it back up. "Phil, I think that was the shittiest motel I've ever stayed in."

"What are you doing?" Sam hisses.

Cas keeps trailing forward. The knife is useless. He digs his hand into his pocket and rips open a salt packet without taking it out. He keeps his eyes on Phil. "You know the AC was screaming all night?"

There's a hammer in Phil's hand, and blood dripping down his legs, pooling at his feet.

Cas isn't thinking, not really. He takes another step until he's just a few feet from the motel manager. "What kind of moron are you?"

Phil is glaring and motionless. "Excuse me?"

"No, I'm not going to excuse you. There's no excuse for running a craphole like that and then accusing your residents of being murderers. You know what I will do? I'll call myself a lawyer, put you out of business unless you get in that car and drive away right now. I can't stand the sight of your face."

The hammer moves but Cas moves faster, throwing the salt at Phil. He disappears. The car does too. But he'll be back in a few seconds. "Go," Cas says, running back toward the impala. "If it won't start up again, give me some salt rounds and iron. One of you run back to town, find out where he was buried."

"The hell was that?" Dean is asking, and he looks pissed. He's rifling through the trunk, though, tossing shotguns to Sam and Cas.

Cas gives him a confused look. "Salt," he says.

"Not that," Dean snaps. "You walking up to him like that."

Cas raises an eyebrow. "Have you ever tried to throw salt at something far away? Doesn't work out too well, I can tell you that from experience."

"What? Just—"

The ghost appears behind Dean and gets blasted away by Sam a moment later.

Dean hefts his gun up to his shoulder and throws the keys to his brother. "See if it'll start." He starts scanning the area around the car.

The car doesn't make a sound. Sam pops out and shakes his head.

"Run back to town, Sammy. We'll hold him off here. Assuming that guy stays here."

Phil appears right next to Cas and Dean blasts him away. "Go! Take some extra rounds with you."

Sam mutters something as he races over to the trunk. A moment later, he runs off.

Cas raises the shotgun and starts scanning as he moves around the car to where Dean is. His limp is getting worse. "What's drawing him here, do you think?" The ghost zaps into view to Cas's left and he pounds him with rock salt.

"Honestly? I have no idea."

"You see that blood all over him?"

"Yeah."

Phil appears right at Dean's shoulder, yanking him backwards before Cas can react. Phil flips the hammer, so the part used to pull out nails is jutted up beneath Dean's chin.

Dean cranes his head up.

Cas sets his jaw and keeps the gun aimed right at the spirit. "Let him go."

"Go ahead, killer." The spirit tightens his grip on Dean, dragging him back a step.

Dean's face is blank aside from the glare in his eyes. He shifts his hand up to get ahold of the ghost's arm. But then his face flickers with something, his eyes blinking rapidly, mouth twisting. He grunts.

"Dean?"

Black veins crawl across Dean's face.

Cas takes the shot. Most of it hits Dean's arm and Dean jolts with the pain, tilting to one side, and then Cas gets a clear shot.

Phil the motel manager disappears.

"Dean?" Cas keeps his gun up, eyes scanning, but steps closer, "You good?"

Dean groans as he pushes up, shaking his head, standing with the use of the car, gun hanging down in one hand. "Yeah. Son of a bitch." He's favoring his other arm.

"Sorry."

"No you're not. Hell, I'm not either." Dean hefts the gun back up with both hands, keeping most of the pain from his face. "Sammy better make like the frickin' wind."

Cas keeps scanning, but Phil doesn't reappear. "What'd it feel like?"

Dean is scanning too, face dark. "What?"

"The ghost, how was he affecting you? Might tell us something about him, help Sam find him faster. You said you have a phone, right?"

"Right." Dean pulls one from his pocket without looking. He's keeping his back to the car while Cas keeps his back to him.

He holds it up. "No service. Go figure."

"Wonderful," Cas mutters.

Dean puts his phone back and adjusts the aim of his gun. "Well I don't know about you but I don't plan on stickin' around waiting for him to come back. I say we hightail it outta here."

"Right." The ghost makes no reappearance. "Might be going after Sam. Try the car again."

It starts. Cas piles in and Dean pulls away. Sam isn't anywhere along the three miles stretch of road on the way back to the town.

"How fast is Sam?"

Dean is frowning. "Not that fast. Listen, you go into the library here, see if you can't find who this guy is and where he's buried. I'm gonna look for Sam."

"Alright." Cas slides out of the car. It's easy to find on the library computer. Wesley Taylor, twin brother to Phillip Taylor, died under mysterious circumstances. That's literally all it says, 'died under mysterious circumstances.' Cas rolls his eyes heavenward and shakes his head before rolling them back down. Buried somewhere behind his home, wonderful. But at least it says that much. And his home is… he lived in a cabin in the middle of the woods, of course he did, the turn off for which is just under three miles from the edge of town. Figures.

Cas snatches some supplies, limps out, and hotwires one of the first cars he sees. He drives to a store and gets some shovels and accelerant and salt and everything he figures he might need before heading out to find Dean or the turn off, whichever comes first.

The impala is nowhere to be seen. Cas turns off onto a dirt road and finds the cabin quickly enough. The impala is parked outside.

Cas gets out of the car, shovel in one hand, shotgun in the other. He wedges the salt and accelerant beneath his arm and moves around to the back of the house. Dread is prickling at him. There's a tombstone, so Cas drops all the supplies but the shotgun beside it and moves toward the cabin door, hoping to at least make sure Dean and Sam are surviving on their own before he starts digging. There aren't any windows on this side. But the door is unlocked.

Cas throws it open, gun up. The ghost is… the ghost is fighting his twin brother while Dean stands over Sam, gun aimed at the duo but not shooting. Dean's head spins at Cas's entrance.

Cas lifts a hand in a 'what do you want me to do/what the heck is going on?' gesture.

Dean gives him a weirded out one-armed shrug.

Cas takes a careful step inside, working his way around the wall over to Dean and Sam. He doesn't make it more than one step. A bookcase slams into him, knocking him to the ground. But the bookcase keeps coming and Cas scrambles backwards until he hits the wall. The case falls on top of his legs.

That's when the whole house starts shaking, things falling from the walls, furniture falling over, beams crashing down from the ceiling.

The ghost and his twin shatter through a window and out the side of the house, but the cabin keeps crumbling.

Cas meets Dean's eyes across the room. "Take him!" Cas shouts, waving his arm. "Get him out! Go, go, go!"

Dean hesitates a split second, staring at Cas—"I'm right behind you," Cas says—and Dean hefts Sam up, Sam's feet moving weakly, and shoves for the door.

Cas is pinned by the bookcase on his legs, his upper half against the wall and he can't get his arms into the right position to shove against the bookcase effectively.

Cas still has the knife Sam gave him. He pulls it out and starts hacking into the wall with it, trying to make room for his arms so he can shove and lift. It doesn't work the way he wants it to. So he starts hacking at the bookcase instead. Just for a minute and then he wedges his arm between the case and the wall and he gets some splinters and cuts but he manages to shove it an inch away and then he can wedge his other arm in there and get some better leverage.

Inch by inch, the shelves gets shoved off. The roof to the right of him comes slamming down, an entire corner of the cabin just gone.

Cas's legs feel drained of blood, like he sat on them for too long or they fell asleep. They feel half-dead, but he shoves upward and staggers toward the door.

He's crawling more than walking. He's halfway to the door when Dean appears at his side, hoisting him up. "You really were right behind me," Dean is muttering, "Huh."

"I don't know why you keep calling me a liar," Cas says, grasping Dean's shoulder and trying to make his legs work.

Dean drags him out the door. Sam is propped up against the back door and Dean drops Cas down next to him.

"Grave's in the back, supplies too," Cas tells him. "Can you dig with your arm? I can help, it'll just take me a minute to get over there."

"I got it," says Dean, the house shaking and collapsing behind him, "Just keep an eye on Sam for me." He races around and disappears behind the cabin.

Sam is panting, but he reaches an arm out to touch Cas's shoulder. "Go help him."

Cas nods. He uses the car to heft himself up, "You have the keys?"

Sam shakes his head.

So when Cas reaches the trunk he has to use less simple means to get it open. Pulls out a gun, makes sure it's loaded with salt rounds before tossing it to Sam. He grabs an iron crowbar and limps and straggles all the way around the cabin to the back.

Dean is digging like a man possessed, but there's no ghost and no twin so Cas moves to set down the crowbar and grab a shovel and help.

Dean shakes his head. "Keep an eye out, I got it. Can't be too deep, right?"

"Sure." Cas hefts the crowbar up. "You got a gun? It'd be more useful. Lost mine in the house."

"Right." Dean bobs his head. "There. Hey, do me a favor," he pulls his phone out and throws it to Cas, "call Sam, keep an open line with him."

"Sure." Cas calls, puts it on speaker, talks to Sam while Dean keeps digging.

Cas walks a few steps past him, peering around the other side of the cabin—it's stopped crumbling. There's no sign of the motel managers. "Sam, you still clear?" he asks.

"Yeah," comes the response.

"What happened in there?"

"Phil was a hunter. The ghost started screaming about how Phil killed him. Phil said it wasn't his fault the house collapsed and then they started fighting."

"Fun. You still clear?"

"Yeah."

Cas peers around the corner of the cabin again. "I should probably go find Phil and rescue his ass, huh?"

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

Cas limps back toward Dean, setting the phone on the ground, "Because it's a great one."

Dean takes one look at Cas and sets his jaw. He holds the shovel out. "Here's an even greater one; you dig, I'll save Phil."

Cas glares at the shovel. "And that's greater because…?"

"Because I have legs and you have arms."

"And I have legs and you have arms." Cas tilts his head.

Dean growls. "No, I mean injuries. You shot me with rock salt and my wrist hurts like crap and you are walking at turtle-speed."

Cas sighs and takes the shovel. "I'll be faster anyway," he says, and starts slamming the shovel into the dirt, "I bet you ten dollars that I rescue Phil first by burning the corpse."

"Ten dollars is lame. But I'll take it. Stay safe, Sammy." Dean grabs the gun and runs around the corner of the house.

Cas moves shovelful after shovelful of dirt. He's starting to wonder if they buried the guy on the wrong side of the gravestone when he hits something. And everything in the world hates him because the moment he hits it, Sam starts screaming, "Oh holy shit, not clear. Very, very not clear." There's a shotgun blast.

Cas is scrambling to pull the lid off the coffin. "Give me twenty seconds, just hold on." He yanks the lid up and then he's harried movement, grabbing the supplies and dousing the body. Sam's gone silent. "Sam?!" Cas hurriedly pulls himself up out of the grave and lights a match. The body is in flames a moment later. "Sam?!"

Cas is tired and sore and his legs still feel dead but he runs around the house with the crowbar, because there's a chance the ghost is holding onto something else and it's the best weapon he has.

Sam is coughing against the side of the car and Cas drops down beside him. "You good?"

Sam nods, still coughing. He doesn't look very good.

Cas lifts his head up and looks around. "You seen Dean? Phil?"

Sam shakes his head. There's worry pulling at his eyes. "Find him for me?"

Cas nods. He shoves to his feet and staggers off in the direction Dean disappeared in.

Dean comes wandering toward him a few moments later. He looks worn out, walking wearily, gun hanging down at his side.

"Phil?" Cas asks.

Dean shakes his head.

"You good?"

"Yeah. You and Sammy?"

Cas limps beside him as they head toward the impala. "Got the ghost."

They reach the car and Dean hauls Sam up into it. Cas crawls into the back.

"Let's get out of this town," Dean mutters, turning the ignition. "Where to, Cas? Still want dropped off at Scarecrow Lane?"

Cas nods. "Yeah. Yeah, just get me to my car."

"Okay." Dean drives off. It's a while before he pulls into park beside Cas's rental.

Cas checks his pockets to make sure he doesn't have anything that belongs to them and then pops the handle of the car.

Dean stops him, "Hey, uh… What's your phone number? I figure we can use all the contacts we can get in this job, right?"

"I don't have a phone."

Dean turns, blinking. "What?"

Cas stares almost blankly at him. "I don't have a phone."

"Why the hell not?"

Cas scratches at his head. "Don't need one."

Sam frowns. "How do people contact you?"

Cas sets his jaw and adjusts the bandage on his arm. "I'm not really worth contacting. Anyway, thanks for the lift. Try to keep a handle on your cases so as to not make my life harder, alright? See you never." Cas slips out the door.

Sam rolls down his window and calls out after him. "Well do you have an email or—"

"Nope. And I lost my laptop two weeks ago." It died in a pool of blood. "Still haven't gotten another one."

Sam's mouth moves soundlessly for a few moments. He adjusts his stance, sitting a little straighter. "Well, do you have money? Maybe you could buy a phone or laptop or something, I can give you our numbers just in case?"

Money was in the car and coat. Mostly the coat. "Yeah," Cas says anyway. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

Sam rifles through the glovebox and comes up with a scrap of paper and pen, writing as he talks. "Can't guarantee they won't change, but these should be good for a little while at least." He holds the paper out. "Here."

Cas walks up to the window takes the numbers awkwardly, slipping the sheet into his pocket. "Cool. Bye." He turns and walks away.

"Bye."

Cas doesn't look back.


	5. Chapter 5

Cas has to wait a month for the heat to die down enough for him to retrieve his enochian blades—in police lockup, imagine that. The slip of paper with the phone numbers makes its home in his trenchcoat pocket—also found in police lockup. And maybe he has to run a Ponzi scheme on some people but he builds up some funds again.

And buys a laptop. He's reluctant to email the Winchesters. He almost doesn't. But Cas isn't an idiot, he can use all the resources and backup he can find. Connections are huge in the hunter community, that is if you have the _right_ connections.

The communication isn't used for much at first. Not until Cas finishes a case and finds a frantic email waiting for him, asking him to get to Sioux Falls, South Dakota because they lost contact with their friend. Cas is in Iowa. He gets there in three hours.

Singer's Salvage Yard. The door has been ripped right off the hinges. It's a splintered mess on the floor. Cas clutches his blade tightly as he walks over it. He only makes it two steps before he gets tackled from the side.

The form on top of him is trying to force Cas onto his front. Cas fights, limbs flailing, landing a few solid hits that lead to deep grunts. He elbows the man in the face while twisting onto his back and the man's grip loosens enough for Cas to shove him off and scramble backwards, hand already pulling one of his blades from his coat.

He's met with a gun to the face and squints. "Why wouldn't you shoot me?"

"What?" The man has a beard. He looks like a redneck. Round face and a ballcap and a vest over a long-sleeve flannel.

"If you had a gun, why tackle me? Why not shoot me?" Cas tilts his head. "No ammo, maybe?"

The man's shoulders rise. "You want to take that chance?"

Cas feels a smile flicker across his face. "No warning shot to prove you have bullets. I'm thinking I'll take the chance." He's careful not to startle the man just in case. "You're Bobby, right? Bobby Singer?"

"Who wants to know?"

Cas shakes his head a little. "Sam and Dean sent me. Said you fell out of contact."

"Sam and Dean, huh?" The gun doesn't waver.

Cas nods.

"Prove it."

"Prove you're Bobby Singer first. Until then, I'm about as far from telling you anything as I am from Poughkeepsie."

The gun lowers to aim at Cas's feet instead of his head. "Right."

Cas reaches a hand into his coat guardedly, drawing out a flask. He holds it out. "Holy water. Drink it."

Bobby huffs. "I'm not drinkin' anything, you damn idjit."

Cas doesn't move. "Don't."

"What?"

"Don't insult my intelligence."

Bobby shakes his head. "Prickly fellow, ain't ya?"

Cas pulls the flask back in. "I'll drink it first."

Bobby's face twists. "Why does anyone have to drink it at all? Just pour some on your hand or something. Also," he stands, walking over to a desk, gun still aimed in Cas's direction. He pulls out a spray bottle, "Use this."

"You don't trust my holy water?"

Bobby gives a shrug.

Cas glowers. "Well I don't trust yours. Here," he stands, flask in one hand, blade in the other, head tilting just slightly. "We'll switch."

"Fine." Bobby tosses the bottle to Cas.

Cas fumbles to catch it without dropping his blade or flask. Stupid freakin' hunters always throwing things at him. He throws his flask in return, and then sprays the back of his hand with the bottle.

Bobby grunts when nothing happens, tipping a small stream from the flask onto his own hand. He raises an eyebrow.

"Silver next."

Bobby grins. "I think I'm startin' to like you."

They each make a small cut on their arm, watching the other warily. Nothing. Finally, something gone right in Cas's life.

Bobby raises an eyebrow. "You gonna help me now or what?"

Cas hums as he nods. "I just hope to god you're not some sort of pagan. Be my kind of luck."

Bobby huffs. He moves out from by the desk, wandering over to where he's clearly been piling broken things.

"So, what happened?" Cas indicates the wreckage around them.

"Damn Griffin tore through that door like it was nothing."

Cas looks at the broken door with a little more respect. "A griffin?"

Bobby gives him a look that says he's sick and tired of all this, a look that says Cas better put his ears on and listen because Bobby's not about to tolerate ignorance. Not about to tolerate anything, really. "That's what I said, ya idjit."

Cas bristles. "Don't call me that."

Bobby rolls his eyes. "So if Sam and Dean sent you, they couldn't be bothered to come themselves?"

There are scratches on the walls. Cas follows them up, head craning backwards because they're scattered all across the ceiling, slicing through a few devil traps and making them effectively useless. "They were farther away. Knew I could get here faster." Cas bends down to help clean up, gathering the shards from a broken picture frame.

Bobby hums gruffly. "You got a name?"

"Cas." Cas moves to right a fallen chair. "You should probably call them, let them know you're alive and whatnot. They were freaked."

Bobby huffs and shoves to his feet, getting a nearby garbage bag. "Griffin sliced through the power lines."

Of course it did. Cas lets out a breath of laughter.

Bobby growls. "What? You think this is funny?"

Cas shrugs. He moves over to the bookcase, gathering papers that have been ripped out. "It's usually me, that's all. Murphy's Law is stalking me or something. It's nice to see that she has a thing for you too."

"That's called bein' a hunter."

They keep working.

"So what happened to it?" Cas asks.

Bobby is gathering feathers into a box. He doesn't even look up. "Happened to what?"

"The griffin."

Bobby shrugs. "How the hell should I know? It flew away."

Cas hums. He starts sweeping up splinters. "What brought it here in the first place?"

"Blasted creatures are attracted to shiny things. Scrapyard was like a goddamned beacon."

Cas smiles a little. It really is good to see that it's not just him these things happen to. "You ever hunt a griffin before?"

Bobby shakes his head and looks annoyed. "First time for everything."

"Oh, this'll be _fun_."

"Shut up and sweep."

When Sam and Dean get there, they get there with pounding footsteps and raised guns. Cas and Bobby hear their car coming and just keep cleaning as the brothers barrel in.

Dean lowers his gun with a glare. "You're both alright, then?"

Bobby looks up for half a second, flicks a glance at Cas, and shrugs. "Yeah."

"You couldn't call and tell us that?"

Bobby shoves more piles of broken wood into a sack. "Cut the power lines. My phone's dead and I got no way to charge it."

Dean turns the glare to Cas. "And you?"

Cas shrugs, glaring right back. "No phone."

"You couldn't email?" Sam asks.

Cas purses his lips. "Didn't think of that, actually. Would you have checked your email? Figured you were busy racing over here."

"Sam was checking it every two seconds. Thought we'd sent you to your death."

"Sorry."

"Whatever." Dean stows his gun in the back of his jeans. "So, what happened?"

"Griffin," Bobby grumbles.

Sam's eyebrows raise. "Griffin?"

Cas grins. "That's what he said, you moron."

Bobby grunts. "Don't ya got your ears on?"

"Oh no," says Dean, "Sam, I told you it was a bad idea to introduce them to each other. Now they're gonna tag team us."

Sam rolls his eyes. He moves to take the broom from Cas. "You guys kill it?"

"Only in my dreams," says Cas.

"What'd you use?" Bobby asks, "Because I don't know about you boys but I ain't got a clue how to kill a griffin."

"Fire works on most things," Cas notes.

Dean walks carefully around a pile of broken glass and over to the bookcase. "No lore on griffins?"

Bobby looks up. "Oh, I had lore. Griffin tore the books apart."

Dean stops walking to look at Bobby. "You're kidding."

Bobby half-shrugs. "Pages are right there on the table if you wanna look for something. She ate half of them."

"She?" Cas asks. He's not doing much besides watch Sam sweep ineffectively.

"A thing tears through a house like this, guarantee you it's a female."

Sam keeps trying to sweep despite the fact that he's spreading dust and wood chips and paper around more than gathering them. "Could there be more?"

"I hope not." Bobby tosses a broken chair leg into the bag. "One was enough."

"You fight her off?" Dean asks.

Bobby shakes his head, "She took as much as she could carry and flew."

"How big was she?" Cas asks. Bobby turns to look at him and his mouth thins. He bobs his head toward the pile of glass.

Cas shoves off the couch he's leaning against and gets back to work.

"Smaller than you'd expect. More the size of a panther than a lion, but the wings alone had to be at least thirty feet when spread. Thank god she couldn't fly while she was in here or I'd be dead."

Sam stops trying to sweep. He gets down on his hands and knees and starts picking up the larger pieces. "You know griffin feathers are used in certain spells?"

"You planning on doin' a spell, Sammy?" Dean grimaces as a paper falls apart in his hands. He lays the pieces out carefully on the table.

"Just saying."

"I'll be extra careful not to mutter anything while I burn 'em," Bobby grumbles.

Cas grins. "Maybe we could use them as bait for witches. As good as a soul to a demon, I'd expect; griffin feathers to witches."

Dean shakes his head. "No ways that could go wrong," he mutters.

Cas glares. "Not if you're not a moron."

"Just shut up, Cas."

"You first."

Bobby mumbles something under his breath.

Sam stays on topic. "Griffins have nests, right?"

"Who the hell knows?" Bobby's movements are growing harsher.

"Dean, you got anything?" Sam peers over his shoulder at his brother.

Dean shakes his head, squinting down. "Still looking." He flips a page over.

"Look faster," Cas says. "Could come back at any time."

"Great, we'll feed you to it, maybe it will choke on your bones."

"Screw you, Dean, I'm delicious. And if we feed it anyone, it'd have to be Sam because clearly he's the one the griffin would choke on."

Dean keeps looking through the pages. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Sammy, go sit outside and be bait."

Sam doesn't move from what he's doing. No one really expects him to. "Thanks a lot, Cas."

"You're welcome, Sam. No, but seriously, griffin could come back at any time."

Dean nods. "Yep, got it. I'm looking."

"Don't strain yourself."

"Shut up, Cas."

"Hey Sam," says Bobby, "Do me a favor and repaint those devil traps."

Sam's head cranes back. He shoves to his feet. "Sure thing."

Sam's finished repainting one and has moved to another when a screech sounds in the distance.

Cas's head pops up.

Bobby looks grim. "That'd be the griffin."

Sam drops his arms, paint dripping from the brush. "Dean…?"

Dean shakes his head, scanning hurriedly through pages with a growl. "Nothing."

Cas pulls out his blades. "You hit it with anything before, Bobby?"

Bobby is staring out at the windows and doors, waiting for the form to appear. "Silver bullets. Didn't even flinch."

Cas moves to stand by a window, up against the wall. He can't see the griffin, but he can hear it land, crashing through the cars outside.

Dean and Sam move by the walls as well. "Maybe it won't come in?" Sam asks.

"That's what I thought the first time," Bobby says.

The sounds outside stop. A huge golden form comes swooping around the corner to the front of the house.

Bobby moves to crouch behind the couch, gun aimed at the front door.

The griffin tears through a few more cars before the screeching grows louder. It bolts in through the door of the house, wings tucked against its back.

Everyone starts firing.

The griffin rams the couch and into Bobby, sending him flying across the room, hardly seeming to notice the bullets piercing it's hide.

Cas's enochian blade embedding itself into the griffin's shoulder… that it notices. The griffin's beaked head twists violently and a moment later its claws are skittering across the floor as it galumphs toward him. Cas scrambles back, fumbling his way over a desk and falling to the floor. The griffin starts to clamber over after him and Cas hurriedly crams himself beneath the desk, narrowly avoiding being torn apart by claws. The griffin keeps coming over the desk, reaching for Cas and Cas stabs out blindly with his second blade.

The screeching rises in pitch, the griffin's limbs ripping faster, scratching across skin, and Cas stabs again and again and finally the beast jerks back with a hissing growl, spinning around the desk in a parade of feathers.

It disappears out the door and there's a clattering crash and then the griffin is flying off with something metal glinting in its talons.

Cas crawls out from under the desk, breathing a little too hard. He stands up.

Dean is watching the griffin fly off. "I don't think it liked your knife, Cas."

"No shit."

"I mean it was that or your face."

Cas glares.

Dean turns and gestures. "Look at it, all scratched up, clearly she was working through something. Maybe you reminded her of an ugly boyfriend."

Blood is trickling over Cas's eyebrow. He reaches up to wipe it off with his sleeve and Dean's face twists.

"Holy crap." Dean breaks forward, grabbing Cas's arm and pulling it back down.

Cas tilts his head so the blood won't trickle into his eye, trying to tug his arm back because that really hurts. "Let go. What are you doing?" He uses his other sleeve to wipe at his face.

Dean sets a hand on Cas's shoulder and tries unsuccessfully to steer him over to a chair. "Tore your arm up." He pulls on the edges of Cas's sleeve, opening the gashes in the fabric wider. He skims over broken skin and Cas jerks his arm away before the pain even registers. It registers hard.

"Of course it did," Cas mutters. He draws his arm in close, peering at it. The whole area's sort of numb with pain. "I'm fine," he says.

Dean huffs. "You're a friggin' liar is what you are."

"It's not as bad as it looks." Cas sets down his blade and pulls at the tatters of the sleeve, pressing over the gashes. He stares at the three-sided weapon sitting bloody on the desk and frowns. "It took my blade," he realizes.

"What?" Sam is righting a chair and pushing Bobby to sit.

Cas looks up from his arm. "Now we _have_ to go after it. Do you know how hard it is to find these blades? You can't just order them on ebay. I want it back."

"Calm down," Dean says.

"What if it was your car, Dean, how would you feel then?"

"Calm down," Bobby growls, "and stop bleeding all over everything, god knows there's enough mess to clean up as is."

Cas presses down harder on his arm. His face folds into a familiar frown. "I want it back."

"We get it." Dean walks past Cas and over to the blade he set down, picking it up by the hilt while Cas glowers at him. "What is this made of?"

"Nothing you have access to."

Dean glares, blade lowering slightly. "Gee, thanks. Could you be a little more unhelpful?"

"It's ethereal." Cas holds his hand out. "And mine."

Dean gives it over. "Where'd you get it?"

"My father." Cas stows the blade in his coat—covered in blood anyway. He'll have to buy a new one. He liked this coat. "Where he got it, I have no idea, so don't ask."

Dean hums. "Got any more?"

"Just the two."

"Well right now it's the only weapon we got that seems to have any effect on this thing." Bobby shoves to his feet, wandering over to his dropped gun.

"We haven't tried fire." Cas keeps pressing down on his arm. "You got a bathroom, Bobby?"

"Use the one upstairs. Should be a first aid kit in one of the cupboards."

"Thanks."

Sam starts to follow Cas up the stairs.

Cas hesitates a few steps from the top, turning with tense shoulders. "You need the bathroom?"

Sam stops. "Thought you might want some help."

Cas narrows his eyes. "Right." He stares at Sam for a moment and then his eyes unpinch a little, shoulders losing some of their tension. "You want to see the blade, right?"

Sam frowns up at him. "No, I thought you might want some help."

"Sure." Cas reaches into the folds of his coat, pulling the blade out and handing it to Sam hilt first. "Don't lose it. Now if the griffin comes back while I'm up there, you have something to defend yourself with. Happy? Stop following me." Cas doesn't quite turn back around, walking up the steps with his back to the wall.

"Uh… right," Sam says, trailing back down after a pause.

Cas cleans himself up.

When he comes back down the others are talking. Dean looks up at the sound of his footsteps. "We're gonna go after this thing, find the nest."

Cas nods. "Okay."

It's not until they're geared up and walking out—that was a long debate, car or walking, but they figure they'll find more signs of its trail if they're out there on the ground looking—that Dean says it.

"You and Bobby are in the middle."

Cas frowns, drawing to a stop. "Why?"

"Most injured."

Cas's face twists. "I'm fine. I'll take the back."

Dean snorts. "Back middle."

Cas shakes his head. "No, seriously, I'm fine."

"It's not up for debate, Cas."

Cas is tense the whole way, flicking glances over his shoulder at Sam, face wary and almost _almost_ scared. Sam frowns deeper and deeper. He moves to walk next to Cas instead of behind him. The change is instant. Cas's shoulders lose their tension, his head stops swiveling, he relaxes.

"You don't like people behind you," Sam notes.

Cas nods just slightly. "Been stabbed in the back one too many times."

Sam hums.

The nest is easy to find. A huge pile of metal and other things, glinting in the sunlight. At least 50 feet high.

Cas glares up at it. "God, I hope my blade is still in it's shoulder. I'm not sorting through that pile."

Dean laughs. "Ten bucks says it's buried in there somewhere."

"I'm not taking that bet."

"Why not?"

"Because the world hates me and I guarantee you I will lose."

"Whatever." Dean cranes his head back to stare up. "We climbin' that thing?"

Bobby shakes his head. "Hell, I ain't climbin' that thing. Go ahead, boys. I'll wait down here, keep an eye out."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Scream if you need me."

Cas starts forward. "Let's go." He reaches the pile and latches onto pieces and starts climbing. His arm stings but it's really not bad.

Sam and Dean start after him.

"I love climbing things," Cas says. He's outpacing them.

"Freak," Dean mutters.

"You out of shape Dean?" Cas asks, "You're moving pretty slow. Too many doughnuts, maybe?"

"Shut up, Cas."

Cas smiles a little. "You need help? Need me to throw a rope down from the top?"

"You don't even have a rope."

"I know. But I could go back to the house and get one and still beat you to the top."

"Shut up."

Cas's smile gets a little bigger.

It's somewhat slow going the closer they get to the top, testing that pieces are stable before using them to support your weight because there's less on top of them keeping them in place.

Cas gets over first. There's dip in the middle of the tower/pile thing, almost like it is a giant nest. And it's empty. No griffin, no eggs or offspring—thank god. It's empty.

So the sit down to wait. Fun.

"You got the blowtorch?" Dean asks. He's getting antsy.

Sam nods. "Yeah, I got the blowtorch."

Dean turns. "You got your blade?"

The one in his hand. Cas spins it. "No," he says, and shoots Dean a look.

"Touchy." Dean turns. "Is the torch _ready_?"

"Dean, you watched me set it up."

"Just checking. Honestly, you guys don't have to get so defensive."

Cas's eyes are starting to hurt watching the skies like that. He keeps watching anyway. "You just sit there and look pretty, okay Dean?"

Dean shoots Cas a look. "No," he says mockingly.

"Learn a new word, did we?"

Sam snorts. "Unfortunately, Cas, I think he knew that one already."

A screech sounds in the distance.

"Finally," Dean mutters. He shifts his stance, bracing where he's mostly hidden behind a metal sheet. Where they're all mostly hidden.

Cas grips his blade a little tighter. "Torch first?" he whispers.

"Yeah," Sam whispers back.

"And if that doesn't work, I charge a flaming, flying, pissed off monster with my dagger."

Sam nods once. "Yep."

Cas nods. "Sounds about right. God, I love this job."

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not," Dean whispers.

"Shh. Seriously, Dean, stop talking."

"I hate you."

"Shh."

The griffin stops screeching but they can still hear the sound of wingbeats drawing closer. It lands with a crash of talons on metal. And instantly notices them. One flap of its wings and it's slamming into the metal sheet, bowling it over on top of them. Its claws pierce through it, narrowly avoiding Dean, and it's screeching angrily at them.

Cas and Sam manage to worm their way out from under the sheet on their respective sides. The griffin moves off the sheet and backs up a few steps, fur fluffed up, wings arched out to the side, watching them. It perceives Sam as the bigger threat and charges him while Sam scrambles to get the torch working. He gets it on and aimed just as the griffin barrels into him and they both go over the side. Cas bolts over while Dean finishes shoving the sheet off and follows, screaming for Sam.

Sam is hanging precariously to the side of the metal pile on a few feet down, bleeding at his shoulders—which is pretty much all Cas can see. The griffin is soaring down below, veering upward. Dean starts clambering down to help Sam.

Cas stands on the edge and braces, blade held tightly. He has to time this right.

The griffin grows closer and closer and it's making to tear into Sam and Dean as it flies toward them.

Cas adjusts his position at the top. Dean is screaming something at him, but Cas can't make it out above the screeching and he's too focused anyway.

Almost, almost, almost.

Cas jumps. He lands on the front of the griffin by its neck, stabbing into it while the head twists down to snap at him. The griffin veers away from Sam and Dean and starts flapping wildly. Cas is grabbing a fistful of fur, pulling his blade out to stab into it again. It's ineffective. Cas puts the hilt into his mouth, gripping it so hard he worries he might snap his teeth off, and clambering over the shoulder of the griffin and onto its back while it twists in the air and snaps with its beak and tries to dislodge him.

Cas gets a death grip with one hand, his legs trying to wrap around its sides but it's large and it's writhing and that's not working very well. He pulls the blade from his mouth and jams it into the back of the griffin's neck. And then it's head. Again and again and the griffin starts to topple downward, wings working hard to catch its fall, snapping out and gliding maybe thirty feet down before Cas stabs it again and it loses its balance and tips to one side and then it just falls the last twenty feet.

Cas lands on top of it, thank god, and the next moment, Bobby is there slicing the head off with a machete.

Cas rolls off with a groan and a small smile. "Fun," he says, "Told you." His heart is pounding like crazy, making Cas feel strange and light-headed. He moves to stand and slides back down, his blade falling. He clutches his chest, vision spinning, "Oh my god, I think I'm having a heart attack."

Bobby grabs his arms and slows his slide.

"Is it dead? It's dead, right? Oh my god." Cas is panting.

Bobby is taking his pulse and checking his eyes. "Anything broken?"

Cas takes stock of himself but he's having trouble focusing. "No?"

Bobby starts patting him down anyway.

"Oh my god."

Bobby checks a moment more and then pulls back with a grunting nod. "You're fine. Aside from the stupidity, that is."

"Sweet, that's–yeah, great." Cas gets up, tilting a little. He's dizzy. He puts his hands on his knees. "Yeah." He exhales shakily a few times and then straightens. "Sam and Dean? They go back up, or...?"

Bobby squints toward the pile and grabs Cas's arm, pulling him, "Let's go see."

Cas quickly reaches down and grabs his blade before it's out of reach. He's never gonna find his other one, which sucks, but that's basically par for the course at this point.

Sam and Dean are slowly climbing down the side.

Cas sits down before his legs give out, leaning against the pile, breathing a little too harshly. "Let me know if they fall or anything."

Bobby grunts.

By the time they get down, Cas doesn't feel like he's about to pass out anymore.

Immediately, Dean is swearing at him. "Holy shit, Cas, what the hell?!"

Cas just shrugs.

"You trying to kill yourself?!"

"Torch didn't work, so..." That's crap and he knows it.

Dean swears. "So you launch yourself at it?!"

Cas lifts his shoulders, not quite completing the shrug, turning away from Dean. "You alright, Sam?"

"Uh... yeah." Sam's bleeding at his shoulders and side. "You?" He's looking at Cas strangely. In shock, maybe.

Cas nods and pulls himself to his feet.

"Jesus Christ," Dean mutters. "No way in hell that should've worked."

Cas's gaze rolls around. "We just took down a griffin," he says, and a smile inches up his face.

Dean shakes his head and rubs at his hairline.

Bobby stares at them, arms crossed.

"Who wants to collect the feathers?" Cas asks.

Dean kicks the ground. "Christ, Cas! You could've died. You should've died."

Cas shrugs. "I've had worse." His smile freezes. "A lot worse."

Dean shakes his head.

Sam raises his hand a little. "I'd get the feathers."

Dean punches him, though not hard.

"Ow."

"We're burning it."

A few hours later, they're back at Bobby's. They stay a few days to help him fix his house back up.

And on the second day Dean leaves early in the morning and comes back as Sam and Cas are sitting on the couch drinking coffee–good thing Bobby has a generator because his power is still down.

Dean throws something at Cas and Cas fumbles to catch it.

"Bought you a phone," Dean says.

"Oh." Cas stares down at it, not entirely sure what to do with it. "Thank you?" He's never had a phone before. Never needed one.

"You're welcome," Dean grunts.

Cas picks it up and looks at it.

Sam stares at him, almost amused, "You gonna turn it on?"

"Right." Cas squints at it. Presses the first button he finds.

A smile inches up Sam's face.

Cas tries another button. Every button, frowning down at the phone. He knows how they work, he's seen people use them. Why doesn't it work?

"Have you…" Sam's smile is growing, "have you never used a cell phone before?" He's teasing or mocking or something.

Cas bristles. He tries the buttons again. Tries double-clicking.

"You've never used a cell phone?" Dean asks.

"Pay phones and landlines work just as well."

Sam's shoulder shake with silent laughter. He holds a hand out. "You have to hold it down. Here, I'll show you."

"I can do it."

Sam pulls his hand back, smile still there. "Okay," he says and just watches, trying and failing to hold his grin back.

Cas gets it on.

Sam looks at him, eyes bright, "You gonna put our numbers in?"

Cas listens as Sam rattles one off. "Right." He squints at the phone, jaw moving. He knows how to call the number right now, but not how to save it in the phone. "Right."

Sam holds his hand out again. "Let me show you."

Cas hands the phone over a bit reluctantly.

Sam scoots in closer, showing him the screen.

Cas tilts back a little, feeling the invasion to his personal space keenly, but he watches while Sam shows him.

"Dude, you are so weird," Dean says, sitting down on a mostly intact chair.

Bobby walks up to Cas a few hours later and holds his hand out.

Cas stares at it, looks around on the ground to see what he's asking for but can't find anything.

"Phone, you idjit."

"Oh." Cas pulls it out and hands it over. "Don't call me that," he says.

Bobby hums. He puts his number in the phone and hands it back. "You get in trouble, you call me."

Cas nods. "Sure." He hasn't had a real contact in years and now all of a sudden he has three.

"And if I call you, you better pick up."

Cas nods again. "Sure."

When Cas finally leaves, it feels different. This job might not suck as much as he always thought it did. And maybe not all other hunters are horrible.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I should be working on my other story but this one is just too much fun. This chapter isn't the greatest but it needed to happen._

* * *

Cas and the Winchesters start running cases by eachother, asking for help with research or actual physical help. Cas doesn't ask for much, but every once in a while he'll need to know something about a pagan god or a strange symbol and he'll email, usually. Dean won't admit it, but Cas is fun. He says what he thinks and he doesn't care about being nice and Dean doesn't have to worry about offending him because Cas throws everything right back. Sam thinks it's hilarious. He emails Cas all the time, talking about random things. About cases and lore and stupid foods and crappy weather. Dean's pretty sure it's just because he likes having someone to talk to besides Dean. Someone he doesn't have to lie to.

It's a few months after the griffin that the Winchesters come across a creature they've never heard of before.

It spits acid, whatever it is. And Dean and Sam are in over their heads so they call Cas. And now they're all wandering though a warehouse trying to find the thing so they can shoot it. Only it turns out there's more than one and they're tiny, sneaky little bastards that like to use air ducts to travel.

"They don't like water, right?" Sam asks. That discovery was made when a stray shot hit a water cooler and it exploded and sent a huddle of the creatures hissing off with smoking skin.

"Right."

"So we pull the fire alarm, get the sprinklers going, shoot any that make it out."

Cas nods, scanning the ceiling waiting for one of the freaky little things to pop out. "Sounds like a plan."

They're halfway through the warehouse, passing through an open room, when a mess of the creatures leap out and start spitting. It takes five shots to take down one of them so it's nothing but a cacophony of gunfire for the next few minutes. They've all gone down when Cas arches and swears and Dean realizes that his back is covered in that acid spit crap.

Cas tears off his trenchcoat, but the acid has already soaked through so now he's tearing off his shirt. Dean can see the acid eating at skin and he scrambles to yank off his jacket and rush forward, trying to get that crap off. He sets a hand on Cas's shoulder and brushes the jacket against his back with the other while Cas stands stiffly, spine arching away from Dean just slightly.

Dean drops his jacket to the floor when he's gotten it all, and the acid continues to work its way up the fabric. The top layer of Cas's skin has been eaten away high up on his back. "You okay?" Dean asks gruffly. Cas nods.

Sam makes a strange sound.

That's when Dean notices the scars on Cas's back. Stretching from shoulderblade to opposite hipbone, two huge diagonals with other perpendicular cuts all the way up and down them. There are circular scars in the four middle edges of Cas's back; upper middle, left middle, lower middle, right middle, and tiny circular scars forming bands around his upper arms. Dean grits his jaw. Holy shit.

Cas seems to realize his back is exposed and turns rapidly to face them, knocking Dean's hand off, shoulders stiffening. He looks almost like a scared child, wary and small without his layers. Dean hates it.

Dean has never seen Cas really hurt—bruises, cuts, sprains, bullet wounds, sure, but never anything serious. Those scars were serious. Thick and long and he could've died. Could've died before Dean even knew him.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Cas rolls his shoulders, grimaces, and nods. "Yeah," he says, breathless. He's watching them carefully for their reactions.

Dean glances around the room, but the remaining creatures seems to be staying away for the moment. "We need to get out of here."

Sam nods and turns, already stepping through the door.

Dean turns to Cas. "You next."

Cas stiffens. "I'll go last."

Dean shakes his head and raises his eyebrows. "Most injured goes in the middle, you know that."

Cas rolls his shoulders again, blue eyes wary. He hates being in front. Now Dean knows why. Knows why he gets all awkward and tense with people at his back. But here and now, it doesn't matter.

"You think I give a damn about the scars? They're a whole lot prettier than any of mine, come on."

"Dean," Sam says sharply. He's just outside the door.

"No, he's right." Cas moves forward, slipping past Dean without any of his usual grace.

Dean pats him on the shoulder as he does. They start down winding hallways and Dean is trying not to stare, or to only stare at the injured part high up on Cas's back, merging with the upper middle stab circle. He can see every bone in Cas's spine, and he looks so frail and small and he's all tense when he should be graceful and confident and strong and Dean hates it.

The stop for Sam to peer around a corner, have to wait for one of those creatures to pass down at the other end.

He'd offer his jacket but his jacket is trashed and he left it in that room, and Sam didn't bring one. Cas is wrong shirtless—horribly, horribly wrong. "You're nothing but skin and bones," Dean says, "you're probably freezing. Here," Dean pulls his shirt over his head and holds it out to Cas.

Cas turns and looks at him wide-eyed and doesn't take it. "What are you doing? You'll get cold."

"I'll be warmer than you would." Dean waves the shirt at him, "Come on."

Cas takes it reverently, then just holds it, looks at it. His touch is almost reverent. "Is this a joke?" he asks.

Sam frowns, squinting at Cas. He shakes his head mutely in response to the question.

Dean frowns too. "Put the shirt on, Cas."

Cas puts it on. The change is instant. It's big on him, but he wears it like it's a chestplate of armor. He looks untouchable again, just like he should.

"Looks good on you," Dean can't help but say.

Cas smirks at him. "Everything does."

Dean huffs a laugh.

* * *

Two months later, they're working another case together. A werewolf scores a gash across Cas's lower back before Dean manages to down it with silver bullets.

"Dammit," Cas groans. He stands heavily, hand pressed against his back.

Dean comes up behind him and Cas flinches away, twisting so he's facing him. "I'm fine."

Sam sighs. "Come on, then."

Dean moves to the side, gesturing for Cas to go ahead of him.

Cas gives him a wary look. "Barely scratched me. Your arm is worse, you take the middle."

"Torso wounds trump arm wounds."

"You made that up."

"Sam?"

Sam sighs again. "You guys can tag-team the back, walk together."

It's tense all the way out to the car. All the way back to the motel.

Cas slips into the bathroom and comes back out a few minutes later, glaring and dark.

"What's the verdict?"

"It's fine," Cas grumbles. He sits high-shouldered and straight in the chair at the desk.

"Alright." Dean heads into the bathroom.

It's not until Cas stands ten minutes later, moving to grab something from the fridge, that Sam sees his back.

Sam is on his feet a second later, face twisted. "Dude." There's the tell-tale bulge of bandaging beneath Cas's shirt. There's also blood soaking through, a large patch across his lower back.

Cas turns to face him. "What?"

"You're bleeding."

"It's bandaged."

"Then it's bleeding a lot. Sit down and let me look."

Cas's throat jumps. "It's fine, I'll live."

"You couldn't reach it, could you? You need stitches?"

Cas shakes his head. "Seriously, Sam, it's fine. I'm fine."

Sam shakes his head right back, stepping closer. "Let me see."

Cas takes a step back. "No."

"Cas, come on. Or would you rather I wait until you pass out from blood loss?"

Cas grimaces. He sits back down in the chair. "I'll take my chances."

Sam sighs, sitting on the edge of the mattress and staring at Cas. "Guess I'll wait then."

Dean comes out of the bathroom a couple minutes later.

Sam doesn't look up from where he's staring at Cas. "Cas is hurt."

Dean frowns, eyes thinning as he looks toward their third. "Cas?"

"I'm fine."

"Blood soaked through the bandages."

Dean takes a few steps toward Cas, arm gesturing. "So get up, come on, let's look."

Cas grits his jaw. "I'm good right here."

Dean growls. "Get up, Cas."

"No."

Dean breaks forward and latches onto Cas's arm. Cas wrenches away, shoving to his feet. He sways a little, grimacing, hand settling on the table for balance.

"Cas."

"I'm fine."

Sam shifts his weight. "It's because it's your back, right?"

"It's because I am fine."

Dean nods slowly. He's peering down at the seat Cas just vacated. There's blood on it. "You trust us, Cas?"

"I don't trust anybody."

"_I_ trust _you_," Dean says.

Cas scoffs. "You don't even know me."

"I don't know your past, that doesn't mean squat. We're a team now, and team's have each other's back. Take your shirt off and sit down."

"Yeah, that convinced me." Cas doesn't move. He's starting to look kind of pale.

Dean moves past the chair, trying to get behind Cas, see how bad it is, and Cas turns so his back is facing the door.

Sam watches. "You're literally dripping onto the floor."

"I've had worse."

"Yeah, I think that's the problem."

Dean moves back around the chair. "Come on, Cas. You don't even have to take your shirt off. Just lift it up a little."

"I don't even have to do anything." Cas tilts backward and takes a step to fix his balance, moving toward the door.

Dean watches worriedly. "Come on. Don't make me beg."

"I won't," says Cas. Sam's jacket is by the door. Cas snags it. "Mind if I take this?" He doesn't wait for a response, tugging the jacket on as he slips out the door.

"Dammit, Cas."

Dean hurries after him, but by the time he opens the door, Cas is gone. "God dammit, Cas!"

"We gonna go after him?"

"I don't know yet." Dean stares out into the night. "Think he'll come back?"

"He took my jacket, he better come back."

* * *

Lady luck hates Cas. So of course when he wanders into a bar there are no corner booths open. He sits on the side instead, wary of leaning back because the last thing he needs is to get blood on the seat and have somebody scream at him. He gets a light beer and doesn't expect much. It tastes like crap but he just keeps drinking. Slowly, trying to make it last as long as he can so they won't come over and kick him out for not ordering anything else.

When he gets light-headed and nauseous, he thinks nothing of it. Blood loss, exhaustion. It's not until his tongue goes fuzzy and the walls start moving that he starts to wonder, squinting down at the beer. He pushes it away and shoves to his feet, none too steady. He barely drank half. He stumbles past the table with a groan.

A hand finds his arm, an unfamiliar voice murmuring, "Hey there, you don't look too great."

Cas turns and punches them. He puts too much weight into it, tipping forward with the follow through, just managing to not fall to the floor. It doesn't matter, the guy shoves him hard and Cas hits the floor anyway. God, he doesn't feel good. His head is throbbing in time with his back. His limbs wobble as he tries to get up.

The man stomps down on his back and the world goes white.

When it comes back, it comes back loud. Someone is shouting. A hand finds Cas's arm and Cas shoves it off a moment before the voice registers. "Cas, hey, you okay? Cas?" It's Sam.

Cas groans. He rolls onto his side.

Sam's hand finds his arm again. "Cas?"

"Yeah," Cas groans. His breaths are coming fast and shuddery.

"Can you get up?" Dean is there all of a sudden, crouching at his other side.

Cas hums. He starts to sit up, Sam and Dean helping. He sways a little, everything aching and throbbing and he feels sick. "Drugged me with something," he murmurs.

Dean frowns. "Awesome." He looks around and gets up, pointing to the beer on the table, "this?"

Cas nods.

Dean swirls it around, smelling it. He sets it back down with a sigh and a shake of his head. "Well, let's get you back."

"Sorry."

Sam pulls him up and Cas tilts forward. "My back hurts."

"Yeah," Sam mutters, hand on his shoulder pulling him forward and past a man unmoving on the floor. "You wouldn't let us look at it, remember?"

"Hurts worse now." Cas staggers. "Did somebody shoot me?"

Dean sets a hand on his other shoulder, helping to steady as they pass through the door. "Nope. Just got a nice little scratch."

"It doesn't feel nice."

"Never does."

Cas starts to pull them in the wrong direction. Sam pulls him back. "This way, buddy."

Cas shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"I promise."

"I don't want to go that way."

Dean pulls him that way anyway. "Why not?"

"I screwed up."

Sam pulls Cas back up when he trips on his own feet. "What are you talking about?"

"I lied."

"About what?" Dean murmurs.

Cas isn't sure he's really listening. "I... Just me being stupid, like always."

"You're not stupid," Sam says.

Cas groans and pulls away and folds. He throws up.

"That's awesome," Dean mutters. He crouches down behind Cas and pulls up the bottom of the jacket and shirt.

Cas lets him.

Dean peels back the soaked bandages. "Yeah..." he clicks his tongue. "That needs stitches." He folds the bandages back over and grabs Cas beneath the shoulder. "Come on, get up."

"I think I got shot."

"So me and Sam will have to patch you up, huh?"

"Sorry." Cas stutters to a stop.

Dean tugs on him. "Keep moving, we're almost there."

"How many?" Cas stays still.

Ice rolls through Dean's veins at the tone. He stops tugging.

"What?" Sam asks.

Cas isn't looking at them. He's looking at the ground. "I screwed up. How many?"

"How many what?" Sam asks. Dean wants him to take the question back, doesn't want to know.

"Twelve?" Cas asks, voice small. He sways and Sam steadies him.

Dean is frozen in place, dread pulsing through him because of how scared and hurt Cas looks. "None, Cas. I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but none. Zero. You said you were sorry, so we're forgiving you and moving on. Got it?"

"None?" Cas echoes.

Dean tugs on him gently. "None."

Cas goes where they lead him. "Then how long?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing, Cas. Nothi-Zero. We're gonna patch you up and go to bed and hightail it outta here in the morning."

"Nothing," Cas repeats. His head tilts. "Nothing for how long?"

"Shit, Cas." Dean tugs him along faster, like he can outrun whatever it is this is leading to. "Just... Sam?"

Sam rubs Cas's shoulder. "You're okay, Cas. It's Sam and Dean, just taking you back to the motel. You got hurt by a werewolf and drugged at the bar, remember? Just going back to the motel."

Cas falls silent. The motel's in sight now, just a parking lot away.

Dean and Sam lead him all the way inside and over to one of the beds.

They start to slip the jacket off his shoulders and Cas starts talking again. "Sorry, I stole your jacket."

"That's alright," Sam says, "but next time, take Dean's."

"Next time take _yours_," Dean corrects. He tosses Sam's jacket onto the other bed.

The shirt is bloody so they peel that off next and they're left staring at the stupid friggin' scars on his back above the wound.

"Lay down," Sam says, pushing on the back of Cas's shoulder.

Cas lays down.

Dean pries up the bandages.

"How many?" Cas asks.

"Stitches?" Sam tries, but Cas just shakes his head and says, "No."

"Zero," Dean says, and they clean and stitch and bandage. Dean doesn't know crap about Cas's past but he's starting to feel like he knows too much. "Zero."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: This chapter takes place about a month after the last one. Sorry if my characters seem inconsistent or Cas's thought process is annoying, but I don't really care today and I'm posting this anyway. There will probably be a follow-up chapter._

* * *

It was stupid. God, it was so stupid. Cas went in anyway. He's stupid like that.

In all fairness, he hadn't been expecting the floor to give out beneath him. But it did and now he's stuck and he's pretty sure he broke his ankle and he's friggin' _stuck_ twenty feet below the floor while two ghouls walk around the opening and wait for him to die before they start eating him. It's nice, when you think about it, that they're waiting for him to die first. Other things prefer eating food that's still alive. Cas doesn't want to be eaten at all.

He'd shoot and pray for the best but he's out of ammo already because the ghouls led him on a merry chase around the gravestones and after that he fell and he couldn't get a clean shot to their head, though he tore them up a bit.

He stumbles around the walls again, not sure what he fell into because whatever it is shouldn't exist. The foundation for the building should be there instead. It's like someone had a well dug inside the place before sealing it up and leaving it to rot. That or a trap. Maybe Cas isn't the first person to fall into it.

The walls are concrete and too smooth and too far apart to climb. A big well. Ten feet in diameter. And Cas is stuck. He's going to die down here. And then he's going to be eaten because that's just his life, isn't it? One horrible thing after another. Cas should be used to it by now.

Cas scans the walls and spins in a rage because that's really all he can do with his useless ankle is spin. And his trenchcoat pocket swings into his side and oh. Cas has a phone now. He pulls it out.

Sam is the least likely to get pissed at him, Cas thinks, so that's who he calls, almost cracking the button.

Sam doesn't pick up because Cas's life just can't be that easy. No, god forbid he catch a break. He tries Dean. Then Bobby.

No one picks up. And Cas only has three numbers and he doesn't want to send emergency responders crashing into a ghoul nest so he waits. He calls Sam again. Leaves a message. Something like 'Hey, I walked into a cemetery and fell down a mine shaft and there are some ghouls here and if you don't mind, could you call me back? Thanks.' But with less calm and more frustration.

And then he slumps down the wall and waits.

The ghouls, however, get tired of waiting. They start dropping things down hoping to kill him faster. The first thing misses him only by chance. It's half a tombstone. And it smashes into the floor next to him and sends chunks screaming toward him and now Cas probably has a broken wrist. After that, he's watching and dodging and then something rings and oh, hey, Sam is calling back.

Cas answers, neck craned back monitoring where the ghouls are. "Yes, hello."

"Hey, Cas, you okay? You sounded kinda upset earlier. Ghouls or something? You get out?"

"Yeah, no. Still stuck. Um, listen, could you maybe come help me? I kind of—" he dodges a dresser, the pieces showering over him, and his voice rises. "Yeah, I need help!" It's getting harder to dodge because of all the crap he has to maneuver over now, and his ankle isn't helping. But hey, if they drop enough things he can just climb his way to the top.

"You okay?" Sam's sounds concerned. How nice of him.

Cas uncurls so he can scan up high again. A huge wooden splinter—splinter is very much not an accurate word but he doesn't have another one—is buried in the back of his shoulder and it hurts. "Yeah, no, um… help?"

"Where are you?"

"Uh…" Cas has to think for a minute. "Barlington Cemetery? It's in Nevada. Near Mesquite."

"Okay." There's a long moment in which Cas assumes Sam is looking it up. "We're close, actually," Sam says.

"Oh, thank god," Cas mumbles. The ghouls are pushing a bookcase. Oh, god, that's a bookcase. It tips over the edge. Oh, god, oh, god. And catches on the other one because it's more than ten feet tall. But it catches book-side down and Cas ducks and curls against the wall and can't help the scream as books come cascading toward him.

"Cas?!"

Cas doesn't even hear him. He shields his head for the most part, but his arms and back take a nice beating. Books stop thudding down and Cas has to take a moment and breathe because he can't. He dropped the phone, but it fell beneath him so it's undamaged and that's good. Cas grabs it and unfolds shakily, achingly, peering up. The bookcase starts scraping against the floor. They're pushing it.

"Help, help, help, help," Cas is saying. Shouting.

"We're coming. Cas, we're coming, hold on!"

The bookcase falls. Cas falls too, folding into a ball on the ground, arms thrown over his head. It lands next to him and stays more or less intact—the bottom splinters apart, but hey, whatever, it's not his bookcase. The case tilts over, and then the top is leaning against the wall and oh, that's actually good, because now Cas has a little area of cover. Not that it would do much if they threw down another tombstone because that would probably crash right through it, but Cas doesn't worry about that right now because he finds that he kind of can't move. Not because something is blocking his way but because his limbs aren't really working right. So, Cas stays in his ball with the bookcase tilted over him. "Oh, my god."

"Cas?!"

"Yeah." Cas's voice is way too high. It's shaking. He can't help it. He's faced down a lot of things but he's never been this terrified. Never been this helpless. He's just waiting here to die so they can eat him.

"You okay?"

"…Sure. Yeah, no, whatever, take your time," he says quietly. What the hell is wrong with him?

"Did something crash?"

"…Yeah." Something slams into the top of the bookcase and Cas has a long moment where he can't breathe, but the case holds. "Hey, Sam," he asks, voice strained.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe don't take your time. Maybe break some speeding laws. That'd be fun, right? See just how fast that nice old car can go? Huh? Wouldn't that be fun? Yeah."

"Dude, seriously, are you okay?"

"I ramble when I'm nervous, I'm sorry. Just ignore me for the most part." Something sends splinters flying into his left. "Oh, god!"

"What is that?"

Cas turns to face the shelves again. He's on a mound of books and they're digging into him uncomfortably. Painfully. "What?"

"That sound."

"Oh, it's several different things, don't worry. I'm not actually sure what that one was."

"But what is it?"

"Just some things falling, that's all." Cas gives a little laugh, probably sounds psychotic. "Just some falling things." He probably is psychotic.

"Okay," Sam says softly. "You okay?"

"You already asked that."

"You didn't answer."

"Pretty sure I did, yeah." Cas is tense. Braced. Waiting for the next thing to fall. To slam through the bookcase and kill him. He should move, he really should, so he can see and have a chance of dodging. He really can't move.

"What was the answer?"

"Awesome. It was an awesome answer. Too bad you didn't listen to it."

"Cas?"

"Almost here?" Cas asks. And if his voice breaks, hey, it's not like he doesn't have an excuse. In this case, that excuse is a shattering sound and the groan of the bookcase as it moves and shakes and threatens to collapse.

"Yeah," Sam says, but his voice is pitched too high and Cas doesn't believe him.

"That's okay. Hey, you can have my blade when I die, it's all yours. Put it to good use."

"Cas," Sam says.

"No, hey, and Dean can have whatever the hell he wants. He can have my half-eaten corpse for all I care, just don't let him touch my trenchcoat because it deserves a proper burial."

"Cas, oh my god. You're not dying, we're almost there. Isn't that what I just told you? Just hold on, okay? Almost there."

"I'm almost dead." A thud. The bookcase groans. Cas finds that he can move again.

"Okay, I—just—I'm gonna call an ambulance, okay? Because they can get there faster. How bad are you hurt?"

"No, I'm not…Not dead like that. I mean I'm—" The bookcase splits right down the back and Cas slams to the side and out from under it with a tiny little scream (he can't help it)— "I mean…" he takes a few too-fast breaths, talking over Sam's frantic repetition of his name. "I'm hurt, sure, but I'm not bleeding out or anything. I just… it's more like—god!" They're throwing things now—plates and beer bottles and knives and Cas dives back under the nearest half of bookcase, not before he takes a knife to the arm. "And fuck my life," he pants, trying to see if it's safe to pull out. It's probably not. He doesn't want to worry about it right now. "But you're good. Don't send anyone because paramedics would get killed on sight, these ghouls are vicious."

"How many are there?"

"Just two, I think."

"Okay. Cas, I swear, we're almost there."

"And I totally believe you. Totally. Don't let Dean touch my trenchcoat. I mean, I'm assuming you're still gonna come after I'm dead to take the ghouls out, but I guess you might just leave them, huh? Forget all that stuff I said, just don't worry about it. I mean, if you want my blade, you can still-"

"Stop. You're not dying. We. Are almost. There."

That's a tombstone. Crashing down. Not directly above him, so yay, but it still breaks his half of the bookcase into half again—quarters, Cas supposes—and sort of shoves the top half (quarter) down over Cas's head and Cas blacks out for a second. Half a second. Who the hell knows how long? Sam, probably. And Sam screaming Cas's name is probably what wakes him up again. Cas lost the phone though, and there are piles of debris all around him and it could be anywhere and Cas can hear Sam but he can't see the phone and doesn't have the time to look because he has to dodge things again.

He's not dodging very well. Cas picks up a piece of wood to use as a shield against the small things, but then he can't see where they're pushing over the large things. And Cas is trying to peer up and look and keep moving and he trips and falls and God finally realizes how much of a jerk he's being to Cas and Cas finds the phone. Right before a bottle shatters into his side.

"Yeah, screw you, ghouls!" Cas hauls to his feet and picks up debris and starts throwing it back, not even bothering to pick up the phone. It's not hitting them, not even close, but it forces them back from the edge and Cas stops having to dodge. He picks up the phone, still throwing things. His arm hurts. Which arm is this? Oh, the stabbed one, that's nice. Is it called stabbed if the knife was thrown? Cas throws things with it anyway because somehow it hurts less than the broken wrist and the giant piece of wood in his other shoulder. He holds the phone on that side.

"Almost here?"

"Thank god," Sam says. "Oh, thank god."

"Don't thank _him_. He hates me. He's probably jealous, is what he is. Because I'm so—stay back you assbutts!—so awesome. I think he put a hit out on me." There's a high-pitched whine coming from above him. Eerie and distant.

"Stay on the line, okay? We're-"

"Almost here, yeah."

"Actually I was gonna say—Nevermind what I was gonna say, I like that better. We're almost there."

"Mmm-hmm. How many minutes? Three hundred is my guess." Cas is throwing books mostly. They're the easiest. But the ghouls start sliding something across the floor and using it as cover and is that—a couch. Yep. It's a couch. "I'm dead," he says. "I am very, very dead. You have ten seconds." The whine grows louder.

"Good, because we're there."

"Are you?"

"No."

Cas laughs. It's more like crying, really. "Don't let Dean touch my trenchcoat."

"Don't die."

That's a siren. That whine. That is definitely a siren. The ghouls hear it too, because the couch stops sliding and they start running. "Oh my god."

"What?"

"I think the police just showed up."

Sam lets out a breath. "Finally. Oh, hey, Cas, I had Dean call the cops for you."

"Holy shit. Holy fuckin' shit, Sam, that was so sweet of you. I think you just saved my life."

"Good, because now we actually are there."

"Too little, too late. I'm ditching your asses for the cops."

"You have your weapons on you? Did you actually kill any ghouls?"

One. During the chase through the cemetery. And yeah, he might actually be wanted for a few things in Nevada. Was that vampire thing Nevada? Yeah. Oh, and Cas definitely remembers someone promising to kill him the next time they met. Someone with a badge. "Sam, come get me. Come get me right the hell now. You have rope? Draw the cops away. What were you thinking? Why did you call them? Christ, Sam, what are you trying to do? Get me arrested?"

"We're almost there, Cas. I'm gonna distract them and Dean will come get you."

"Okay. Okay, okay, okay, sounds good. Watch out for ghouls."

"Yeah," Sam says softly. "I'm hanging up, okay? Dean's walking in the back right now."

"How strong is Dean? Because I don't know how well I can climb, at this point."

"He'll get you out. I've gotta hang up. Distraction, remember?"

"Thank you, Sam."

"Don't die." Sam hangs up.

And Cas waits. He folds, slumping down into the mess of debris, breathing hard. Way too hard.

"Jesus Christ." That's Dean's voice. Clear and unmuffled.

Cas looks up, spotting his form up above the floor. On the floor. Where people belong. "Help?"

Dean's face is twisted. "Yeah." He has a rope thrown over his shoulder and pulls it off. "I've just gotta find something to attach this too."

"Good luck. It's all down here with me."

"There's a couch."

Cas lets out a huff of psychotic laughter. "Oh, I know there's a couch. Couch isn't heavy enough. Don't you dare attach _that_ _rope_ to that goddamn _couch_."

Dean shuffles out of view. He comes back a few moments later, throwing the end of the rope down. "Tie it around yourself, I'll pull you up."

Cas stares at the rope for a moment. He looks up. "Did you attach it to the couch?"

"No." Too-high pitched.

"I do not want to be crushed by that couch being pulled over the side. I'd rather you pull me up without the rope attached to anything, and if I fall, I fall. But I will not be crushed to death by a couch. Not today. You hear me?"

"It's not attached to the couch."

"Okay." Cas grabs the rope and ties it around himself. It's hard. Mostly because his limbs are shot to hell and they're shaking and he can't stop it. But he gets it tied, and Dean starts pulling him up hand over hand. He hauls him up over the lip at the top, one hand in the back of his coat and the other on the waistband of his pants because Cas is useless and nothing wants to work.

Cas's eyes follow the rope. "You attached it to the couch."

Dean hums, but his face is dark. He's looking Cas over, one hand hovering over the knife in his arm. "Did I?"

"I hate you. I hate you so much."

Dean moves around to Cas's side. "Jesus Christ," he mutters.

"Let's go. Let's just go. Get me the hell away from here."

"Okay." Dean carefully slides an arm around Cas's waist, trying to avoid splinters and gashes and god knows what, pulling him up. "Can you walk?"

"Sure, yeah, whatever." They move a step and Cas's shitty ankle decides that's a good time to stop supporting any weight. "No," he corrects. Oh, look at that, there's a big chunk of rock in his leg.

Dean lowers him back down. "Okay." He turns, arms out to either side. "Get on my back, Cas."

"Um…" Cas reaches his arms around Dean's shoulders—his throat, really, but Cas is trying not to choke him so he does the shoulders as much as he can without hindering Dean's movements. "The knife is kind of…" It's in the way, is what it is.

Dean turns his head. He tears a strip off the bottom of his shirt.

"Don't—"

Dean pulls the knife out and Cas presses against his back with a groan. The strip of fabric gets wrapped around the wound and then Dean is adjusting Cas's grip around his neck.

Cas scoots forward. He brings his legs to either side and Dean grabs them and lifts him up.

Cas is exhaling harshly against the back of Dean's head. It's fluffing up his hair. It's funny. Cas doesn't laugh. He turns his head to exhale harshly somewhere else.

Dean walks toward the back door.

Cas adjusts his grip, trying to get some relief to his throbbing wrist. "How can you be sure I'm not a ghoul?"

"Dude."

"I could be a ghoul," Cas says. "And you're just letting me on your back without even checking."

"Well, a ghoul wouldn't suggest to me that they were a ghoul, so I know you're not one."

"Yeah, okay." Cas falls silent. He doesn't like the silence. Because then he's thinking. Letting everything catch up to him. "How will we know Sam's not a ghoul when we find him?"

"I'll ask him."

"Okay." Cas doesn't feel good. "How do I know you're not a ghoul?"

"You ask me," Dean says.

"Are you a ghoul?"

"Nope."

"Awesome. Carry on, then."

They pass through the door and outside. There are flaring blue and red lights but they're coming from the front and Cas can't actually see any police cars. He takes a few deep breaths. "That was scary, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean says quietly. "Yeah, it was."

"But not as scary as like the griffin, though."

Dean gives a little half-hum. Then he shakes his head. "Hell of a lot scarier, actually."

"Oh."

Dean nods. He almost hits Cas. They're walking past graves now. On a little path.

"So, I've decided I don't like ghouls."

Dean hums.

"And I'm never taking a ghoul case again. And never going to a cemetery ever again."

Dean huffs.

"And so, basically, I'm out of the hunter business altogether. But just until tomorrow, probably. And then I'll stop caring and get back to it."

"Sounds like a plan. You can count me in."

"Count you in what? Meters?"

"That didn't even make sense."

"Yeah," says Cas. "Sorry, I have a concussion probably. Just give me a courtesy laugh, make me feel a little better."

"Ha. Ha. Ha."

"Perfect."

The impala is in sight now. It's quickly getting dark. "What time is it?" Cas asks.

"I don't know."

"Hmm. So, where were you guys?"

"Mesquite."

"Really?"

"Really." Dean opens the back door. He starts to lower Cas's legs down.

Cas slides off his back, keeping an arm on Dean's shoulder and moving the other to the side of the car. "You break any speeding records?"

"A few." Dean starts to help Cas through the frame of the car.

"I'll get blood on it."

"I don't care." Dean walks toward the back, leaving the door open. Cas doesn't really like the door open. Ghouls might appear to throw knives and dressers at him. But then Dean comes back with a first aid kit and flashlight and blanket.

Cas points at the latter. "For the seat, right?"

"For you." Dean throws the blanket over his legs.

"Oh." Cas stares down at it. "I'll get blood on it."

Dean hums, nudging Cas over and sitting beside him, pulling the door closed.

"We gonna come back for my car?"

"Tomorrow, maybe. I'll drive out with Sam to pick it up."

"Awesome."

Dean is maneuvering Cas. Twisting him to look at the shard of wood in the back of his shoulder.

"I'm pretty sure I have like a trillion splinters. It'll take a week to get them all out."

Dean pulls the wood and quickly presses something down over the wound. "You got anything serious going on?"

"For the week?" Cas asks confusedly.

"For injuries. Do you have any serious injuries?"

"Oh." Cas takes stock of himself. "Maybe? I don't know."

"Where's it worst?" Dean keeps pressure on his shoulder while he asks.

"Well, I think I broke my ankle and my wrist and some ribs, most definitely. And I've got debris and shards sticking out of me and they knifed my arm and my back really, really hurts… there were books… and a tombstone was dropped—not on my head, but it hit…and…yeah…"

"Okay," Dean murmurs. "Let's take your coat off, check the damage."

"Shouldn't we get away first?"

"We are away."

Cas shakes his head. "Pretty sure we're not."

"We've gotta wait for Sam."

"I know. So, let's wait. Or you could go get him. Whatever." Cas doesn't really like the thought of being left alone right now. He likes the thought of getting patched up and exposed right here even less.

Dean sighs. His hand moves to his jacket pocket. "I'll call him."

"Awesome. Dean, I want to thank you for buying me a phone. I really, really like it."

"Yeah. Take your coat off. Shirt too." Dean gets Sam on the phone a moment later, because he starts talking and not to Cas. "He's alive, I got him. We're at the car. Work your way around when you can."

"Now would be nice," Cas mutters, trying to get his sleeve off and finding it difficult for some reason.

Dean latches onto the cuff and helps him. "Cas is getting antsy. Wants to leave."

"I'm not getting antsy. What does that even mean? Like you have ants in your pants and can't sit still?"

"Torn up and busted half to hell, but he'll live."

"Busted half to hell," Cas mutters. Then his head tilts. "No, that's accurate, actually." The other sleeve comes off easier.

"He won't stop talking." Dean pulls the coat away and drops it onto the floor.

"Rude," Cas says, and isn't sure if he's talking about the coat or what Dean said. Both. Both is good. "You have no respect for things."

"Rambling, yes." Dean tilts the phone away from his mouth a little. "You nervous Cas?"

Cas bristles. "No. What on earth do I have to be nervous about? Ghouls running around, trapping people and dropping things on them and they could show up at any second and I'm not allowed to ramble a little? Honestly, Dean."

"He's nervous. Panicking might be more accurate. Doesn't like ghouls." Dean tilts the phone away again. "Take your shirt off."

Cas hesitates. "I think we should wait until we're… not here."

Dean squints at him for a moment. Then he screws up his face and sighs. "Your back, dammit. You are nervous."

"Panicking might be more accurate. I don't like… Not here."

Dean sighs. He picks at a corner of the blanket. "Legs first, then." He hums into the phone. "Oh, no, just talkin' to Cas. You still by the cops?"

"Are you telling me to take my pants off or what?" Cas asks.

Dean scoots back on the seat a little, waving his hand toward his lap, "Just throw 'em up here."

Cas moves the blanket and throws one up. The busted ankle one.

Dean grimaces a little, heading shaking as he mutters, "Christ." He wedges the phone between his shoulder and head and tears a hole wider. He pulls out a rock chunk and tosses it onto the floor.

"Ow." Cas frowns at Dean.

Dean ignores him. "Yeah, yeah, I know, just get over here. We need our getaway driver." Dean picks through the first aid kit for some tweezers. He squints down. A flashlight gets shoved into Cas's hand. "Hold this for me."

"Gladly." Cas flares it over Dean's eyes before he holds it up so Dean can better see what he's doing. His arm hurts. This is the knife one. Dean starts picking pieces of rubble and wood from Cas's leg. He shifts it and pain spikes up through his nerves, making Cas flinch away a little.

"Ankle?"

Cas nods.

Dean gets distracted by something Sam says. "What?" he asks. "No, don't stop to—" He looks at Cas and cuts himself off. "No, don't stop. Just get over here." Dean carefully lifts Cas's leg, moving down the seat so he's closer to the foot. "Okay, I'll see you." He hangs up, shoving the phone back into his pocket, moving to hover over Cas's ankle. He holds one hand out toward Cas. "Give me that flashlight."

"Gladly." Cas shoves it at him. "Sam's coming?"

"Yeah." Dean starts poking and prodding. "Too swollen to tell if it's broken," he finally says.

"So, I'll tell you. It's broken. Maybe it wasn't at first, but it is now. Ninety-five percent sure. The other five percent is margin of error."

"Well, I can't set it until the swelling goes down."

"Sorry, I kept up the blood flow because I was dodging furniture."

"I know," Dean says. "Wasn't a criticism. Just saying." He looks over at Cas. "You said wrist too, right? Let me see that." He lifts Cas's leg and scoots back up the seat, holding his hand out.

Cas shakes his head. "Yeah, no, you come to it because I don't want to move my shoulder. Hurts like hell."

Dean's hand drops back with a sigh. He can't really get close enough when they're positioned in the car like this. "Hold the flashlight again." He lifts it up and holds it out.

Cas takes it. "Most fun I've had all day."

Dean picks at splinters and wood pieces and bottle shards and other crap in Cas's leg. "We're gonna have to bathe you in sanitizer."

Cas can't even imagine how painful that would be right now. "Please, don't."

When Sam knocks on the window, Cas startles violently, swearing under his breath.

Dean unlocks the door and Sam gets in. "Hey, Cas."

Cas watches Sam with pinched eyes. "You're gonna ask him, right?" Cas asks Dean.

Dean squints down at his leg, pulling out another shard of glass. "What?"

Cas bobs his head toward Sam. "I asked you and you said you'd ask him."

Dean gives Cas a blank stare.

Cas slumps down in the seat a little more. "Whatever."

Sam is half-turned in his seat, looking back at them, scanning Cas with a frown. "Ask me what?"

"I'm just trying to keep everybody safe but forget about it."

Dean's eyebrows twitch as he thinks, veering in and out of confused. "Safe from..." It takes a long moment but then he huffs and laughs, eyes widening. "I remember now. You a ghoul, Sam?"

Sam smiles. He shakes his head. "No."

Dean pats Cas's leg. "There. Perfectly safe."

"Thank you. Of course, you should have asked _before_ you let him in the car. He could have thrown a knife at your face and eaten it off before you knew what hit you."

"Definitely rambling," Sam says.

Cas points him toward the steering wheel. "Just drive."

The major wounds on Cas's leg are haphazardly bandaged. Nothing fancy because they'll still have things to pull out and clean when they get back but it'll hold until they do. Dean reaches his hand down. "Let me see the other one."

Cas throws it over top of him.

Dean grimaces. "Shit."

Cas sits up a little, trying to see. "What?"

"Something tore a chunk out of your leg." He rips open the pantleg.

Cas mutters something under his breath.

"What?" Dean asks.

"I just–why–why do you have to rip 'em like that? They roll up. These were my best pants."

"Dude," says Dean, shaking his head. "They are beyond salvaging at this point."

"Well, they are _now_."

Dean presses something over wound. "Calm down."

"You calm down." Cas shifts as he says the words, the car moving around a turn. His torso lifts a little, brushing against the arm holding the flashlight—short sleeves today. It's a brush of wetness and a flare of pain and Cas looks down, arm moving, pulling the flashlight without meaning to.

Dean twists his head to look over at him after he loses the extra light, "Hey, what—" he stops at the look on Cas's face. "You okay?"

Cas drops the flashlight and presses fingers against his side, almost his back, feeling sharp glass shards jutting out. "I got hit by a bottle," he mumbles.

Dean nudges Cas's legs off the seat and slides closer. He sets a hand on the back of Cas's shoulder and pulls him away from the back of the seat, squinting at his side. Cas lets him, breathing through pain at the movement.

Dean pulls up the bottom of Cas's shirt, grabbing the flashlight off the seat and making the wound easier to see. He grimaces, "Okay," dropping the light and lifting the shirt higher with both hands. "Take your shirt off."

Cas lets out a sound half groan, half sigh. "Are we at least out of the cemetery?"

Sam nods, eyes flicking into the backseat.

Dean is pulling the shirt off with or without Cas's help. "Come on." The shirt falls to the floor beside the trenchcoat.

Dean presses his fingers beside the shards in the skin. The car moves over a bump and jolts him. He manages not to bump the pieces. "Sam, pull over for a minute," he mutters.

Cas doesn't want Sam to pull over. "No, I'm fine. We'll fix it up at...wherever we're going. Motel, right? They're just little shards. Just little. I'm fine."

"Sam," Dean says.

Sam pulls over.

Dean leans over and hands him the flashlight. "Hold this."

Sam leans his arm on the seat, flashing light over Cas's side.

Dean grips a shard between his fingers and pulls it out.

"Ow."

It is fairly small, only buried a couple of inches. A couple of inches is a lot in a thin guy like Cas. Dean pulls out another one. And on the next, smaller one, his fingers are slick with blood and he can't grip it well enough to pull, has to wipe it off first, use the tweezers.

Cas doesn't like the silence. "You know, ghouls can run pretty fast. And we're not very far, and I think maybe we ought to just hold off on—" he gestures vaguely— "un-pin-cushioning me until we're somewhere, you know... not here. It's not like I'm bleeding out or anything. Just a thought. You know. Go ahead and turn around Sam."

Sam hums and doesn't move.

Dean tweezers out another piece.

"Seriously, guys, don't blame me when they smash through the back window and destroy this ugly-ass car. And also, weren't there police and... oh, I think I hear dogs barking. You hear that, Dean? Chasing us, probably. I guess we should go, huh?"

Dean continues squinting at Cas's side, pulling out very little pieces now.

Cas hnns low in his throat. "You know what? Stop." He pulls away from Dean, turning so most of the wound is toward the seat, grimacing a little as he does. God, his back hurts. "Let's get those wheels moving, Sam. Yeah, come on, go, I don't want to do this here, I don't like this car. It's creepy, is what it is. Dark and loud and old. I don't like it. Mesquite, right? How far is that?"

A frown is all Cas can see of Dean's face. It's dark now. Too dark for comfort. And eerily quiet.

"We can even stop for food if you guys want. I mean, really, we'll do anything you want anyway because it's your car and you're driving, but I'm just saying, that would be okay with me. Not that you care, but I like to pretend I'm included in these things."

Sam moves the light and it flares over Cas's eyes, making him twist his head away.

"Guys?" Cas asks.

"You heard the man, Sammy." Dean glances at his brother.

Cas lets out a breath. "Oh, thank god. For a second, I thought you were possessed or something."

Dean grabs a gauze pad from the first aid kit and then takes Cas's arm and starts turning him again. "You possessed, Sam?"

Sam gives the flashlight to Cas, spinning around, putting the car into drive. "No. You, Dean?"

"No."

Cas watches Dean press the pad to his side. "You know it doesn't really work like that, right?" Cas feels a little safer anyway.

"It does today." Dean spins around to find something in the first aid kit. "And what do you mean, my car is creepy?"

Cas finds that silence isn't so bad.

They make it to the motel in one—they make it to the motel, Cas with a few extra pieces. It really might take a week to get the splinters out.

They get out most of them. And clean and bandage and stitch where needed. Cas lays on his stomach on the bed because his back _hurts_.

Sam scrounges up some towels and fills them with ice and sets one high between the shoulders and another low on the spine. He places some over his wrist and ankle too. "You're gonna be black and blue tomorrow."

Cas would nod, but it hurts. He watches Sam sit on the other bed, listens to Dean running water in the bathroom—washing his hands, probably. "You're sure you're not ghouls or something? Shifters, maybe?"

Sam nods.

It doesn't work like that. It's not as though a ghoul would tell him. Cas believes Sam anyway.

The next morning, Cas aches too much to move. His muscles are tied up in knots. But Sam and Dean are going ghoul hunting and Cas refuses to be left.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Pay no mind to the altering of the show's timeline; crossroads deals and psychic abilities... _

_Sorry it's been so long since my last update. _

* * *

It's not that Cas is scared, exactly. He's just cautious. Smart. He's preparing for the worst, is all. He's not scared. He's not.

"Stop laughing," Cas says.

Dean coughs trying to stop. "I'm not laughing," he says, coughing into his hand trying to hide his smile. He's standing just outside the car door, a shotgun tipped up against his shoulder.

Cas's limbs don't want to work. His back doesn't either. He can't seem to get out of the car.

Sam is watching with his mouth drawn back in a look that's half-sympathy, half-grimace. "I really think you should just wait here."

"No. I'm coming." Cas tilts his weight forward and up again. He falls down, back jolting with pain. It's stiff and almost unmoveable and at this point it's just a nightmare. "How many ghouls did I tell you there were? Two? Well, I lied. There are fifteen at least. Five for each of us." He shoves upward again with a grimace. This time he manages to stay up, half his weight against the doorframe of the car.

Sam hands him the crutch—where they got it from, Cas has no idea. It's too short for _him_ so it definitely didn't belong to either of them. "I'll even take ten," Cas continues, "just 'cause I'm nice like that." After that he shuts his mouth because he needs to stop talking.

The cemetery looks eerie. It doesn't, really, but he wants it to. Normalness can be eerie. Flowery-ness. It's ugly, is what it is. All that… green… growth… it's just ugly. Cas hates green today.

The sun is too bright. Cas has to squint against the glare.

Dean starts walking.

The ghouls are gone now, probably. Why wouldn't they be? No one really expects to find them here. So, there's absolutely no reason for Cas to be scared. And he isn't.

Sam is looking at him. Waiting. "You good?"

Cas nods. He closes the door and starts hobbling forward, gun thrown over his shoulder by the strap. He's loaded down with spare ammo—a precaution. It's good to be cautious. "We're gonna get my car, right? I mean _I _can't drive it, but…"

"Yeah, we'll get it." Sam keeps pace with him. He's walking so slowly it looks almost painful for a man with a stride that long.

Cas waves him forward. "Get up there, make sure Dean doesn't fall down any holes. I'm fine. I'm coming. Slowly, but I'm coming."

"I'm okay," Sam says.

"For heaven's sake, Sam, get up there. Why are you so nice all the time? Jeez. It grates on a man's nerves."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm okay, really. Dean knows how to scream."

Cas smiles a little. "Good. That's good." He hobbles forward stiffly. His balance is off and he's continuously tilting one way and then the other. He watches Dean walk up ahead of them, gun out, looking down every row of tombstones they pass. "You know, I'm honestly surprised he didn't just up and leave me this morning."

"You limped out to the car and sat yourself down before he could."

"I think he could've outrun me."

Sam looks awkward taking such small steps. He nods. "Hey, uh, Cas?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell Dean I asked, but do you know anything about crossroads deals?"

Cas keeps his gaze on the ground, trying to weed out uneven patches. "You mean like 'demon brings glory and talent and fortune and ten years later hellhounds drag the soul that made the deal all the way to the pit?' Because if so, then yes. You might say I'm the leading expert on the subject."

"Leading—really?"

Cas nods. His dad was—is—was good for something, he supposes, even if it's just Cas's knowledge on demon deals.

Sam's steps get lighter and faster. He's excited. "That's great. You know how to break them? Break the contract?"

Cas nods. "You have to actually _break_ the contract."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the demon has to bind the deal into an actual physical object, with actual physical writing and spellwork. You have to break the object; make the deal void. And, of course, you have to kill the demon, because they usually…" Cas trails off, squinting at Sam. "What is this about? Is this just another one of those things that fascinates you, or…?"

"No, err, yeah. Yeah, just—because the demons usually…?" Sam tilts toward Cas, waiting for him to finish.

"They usually bind the object to themselves so that if the contract is broken—it's like having another copy, more or less. Or like a printer that remembers what it printed and can make another copy. You have to destroy both."

"How do we—How would _someone_ find the object? And are there any special steps to destroy it?"

Cas looks over at Sam. Squints over because the sun's too bright. "I'll email you. Assuming I don't die today."

"Oh." Sam falters a little. "But you're gonna be staying with us for a while until you've healed, right? At least mostly?"

Cas gives him another squint. "Am I?"

Dean shouts at them. "What are you guys talking about back there? I'm trying to hunt down these ghouls, and I can't hear a thing." Dean pauses, waiting for them to catch up a little.

Ghouls, right. Stupid, un-eerie cemetery. "You see any signs of 'em?" Cas asks.

"Well we're not in the…" Dean gestures toward the building, "… gravekeeper's house yet, so…"

"Gravekeeper's house? Really?" Cas asks.

Dean gives him a look. A raised eyebrow glare. "Do you know what it's called?"

Cas looks at it. "No. But I sure as hell wouldn't have gone with 'gravekeeper's house.'"

Sam widens his stride a little, outpacing Cas.

Cas keeps talking. Can't stop talking. "Deathtrap, maybe. Or ugly-ass building. Or even cannibal crematorium."

"I don't think that's where they cremate the bodies," Sam says. "And we should probably stop talking, because if the ghouls actually are here, we don't wanna alert them."

"Right," Cas says. His crutch crumples a few flowers because he's way past being considerate enough to deal with avoiding them. He stops talking.

The silence, now that's eerie. Creeping around Cas's senses like a vulture in the shadows. That's fitting because vultures eat dead things. And ghouls eat dead things. And really, it feels like there are ghouls creeping around in the shadows of tombstones and ugly buildings and vaults just waiting to eat all of them. With any luck, they'll kill them first. That is to say, the ghouls will kill Cas and Dean and Sam before they eat them, and not that Cas and Dean and Sam will kill the ghouls before they get eaten, though that would be a nice alternative.

Now Cas is thinking about ghouls, which is wonderful. He wonders how long they've been living here, because maybe they grew too attached to leave. Then he wonders about how they take the form of the people they eat and wouldn't that be weird when loved ones came visiting? Then… then, he's talking again. "Do ghouls age?" he whispers. Dean is closer, though Cas isn't really asking anyone in particular. "They take other people's forms, so do they… do they age, do you think? Maybe they've been living here for like eons, since way back when this was a caveman graveyard. Maybe—"

"Sure you don't want to wait in the car?" Dean asks, not even glancing at him.

"Yeah."

"I'd walk you back."

"I'm fine."

"Then be quiet."

"Rude," Cas mutters, but he shuts up after that.

Dean slows down to walk closer to him.

The next grave is small. Rosie Marie Perez. Age seven according to the dates. There are no flowers. Cas avoids walking over it anyway, moving up to walk on the other side of the headstones, which he definitely should have done sooner, but the rows are uneven and it would've meant more work.

The building is looming over them now. It's eerie, thank god. Dark and old and made of something like concrete, covered in stains and water marks.

Dean stops, so Cas does too. Sam is up ahead, ready to walk in.

Dean glances sideways at Cas. "How 'bout you stay out here, man the exit/entrance, whatever."

Cas looks up the side of the building, and there's this weird feeling in his bones. He should feel insulted. 'Man the exit.' It's a child's job. He doesn't feel insulted. He feels relieved. He nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll keep an eye out. Scream if you need me."

Dean goes up next to Sam. They whisper a few words and then go in, one right behind the other, guns up.

And now Cas is alone. Maybe he should have gone with them.

It's not a particularly large building. Well, it's large, but there aren't very many rooms. It doesn't take long for Sam and Dean to come back out. Cas lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "No ghouls?"

Dean shakes his head. "No ghouls."

Cas bobs his head. "Trail?"

"Let's go find out."

They walk back to the car. Cas limps, but Sam and Dean walk. Well, actually, Sam walks over to Cas's car.

It's not until they're at the town library—the librarian gave Cas a strange look as he hobbled past, but Dean just grinned at her—and rifling through town records trying to figure out what forms the ghouls last had and where they might have first sprung up, that Cas starts to wonder.

Actually, it's not until they're leaving the library, none the wiser for the trip, just past the doors, and Cas comes to a halt staring at the two cars. "So, uh…"

Dean stops to look at him. Sam does too.

Cas can't figure out what he's trying to say. To ask. His mouth opens and closes. "Do I… I'm guessing you guys don't want to randomly stay in this random little town, so, uh… drop me off at the bus station, maybe? There's probably a bus station. I _hope_ there's a-"

Sam stops him, thank god. "You can come with us, Cas. I mean, we didn't find your ghouls today, but we'll keep looking, they'll pop up somewhere. And in the meantime, you can come with us. You're still pretty injured, and…" Sam taps his finger on his leg nervously, brows lifting a little, making his eyes look wider. "Do you have anybody else?"

Cas meets his gaze head on. "Do you?" he asks.

"Settled, then," Dean says. "Sam'll…." Dean gestures vaguely toward Cas's rental "…take care of that. What direction is the nearest town, do you think?"

"Actually," says Sam, and he pulls out an article he must've snagged. "Not ghouls but… So get this, string of suicides in North Rim, Arizona. Police think there's some kind of drug involved, because of reports that the victims were hearing voices before they died."

"Great, Sammy," says Dean. "So why do we care?"

"Because the voices were dead loved ones. One daughter says that her mother was hearing the girl's father before she killed herself, but the father's been dead for five years." Sam looks strangely excited about this.

Dean hums. "You're thinking crocotta?"

Sam nods. "That's what it sounds like to me. Three hours Southeast."

"Okay, then."

Cas piles into the car after Dean. Baby, as he calls it. "Weren't you guys already working a case? What were you doing in Mesquite?"

Dean looks at him using the rearview mirror as a barrier. His eyes flick over to Sam first. Sam in the other car, already starting to pull out. "Sam had a feeling," Dean says.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, no case, just you," Dean says, and he leaves it at that.

* * *

North Rim is the Grand Canyon, as it turns out, which means...

"You can't come, you can barely walk, and the ground's gonna be all uneven."

Cas gives Dean a look. "That's what the crutch is for."

"You can't come, Cas."

Sam is by the door, not agreeing, but not disagreeing either.

"You can't stop me."

"What are you, five? Of course I can stop you. Look at yourself; a child in a wheelchair could stop you."

"Mnnn." Cas is hobbled, but... "I don't think that's true. An adult in a wheelchair, maybe, but a child..." Cas shakes his head.

Dean lets out a rattling noise of frustration. "It's not up for debate, I will lock you in if I need to."

Cas just shakes his head even more. "You know, I've never understood that; leaving someone tied up or locked up to go do something dangerous. What happens if you die or get delayed or something? I just starve to death? Scream for help? Wouldn't I have done that in the first place to get out and go after you? Obviously, no one's coming. So, yeah, it doesn't make any-"

"Shut up."

Cas continues, "...sense, because you're almost putting me in more danger by leaving me."

Dean is glaring now. "Shut your pie hole, Cas."

Sam shifts awkwardly on the other side of the car, drawing Dean's attention in a bad way.

"What, Sam?!"

Sam shifts his feet again, half leaning against the side of the door. "Maybe he could come; stay in the car, keep us updated, look at maps and tell us where to go or something."

"We're not leaving him alone in the car on a crocotta's hunting grounds." Dean says it like that's the only thing there is to say, the only possible conclusion, which is, of course, ridiculous.

"You're not leaving me at all," Cas says, "because I'm coming." He works a hand out from his crutch-sling detriment and fumbles the door open.

"You're nothing but a liability like this," Dean says, voice rising louder and louder, "You're just a baby in a trenchcoat."

It's the wrong thing to say. Not the most wrong, but close. Castiel can feel his back and shoulders stiffening, painfully, he might add, because the muscles are screwed beyond all reckoning. Cas shoves the door closed again without getting inside. "Fine. Go." He doesn't bother to look at the brothers as he hobbles past, but he sees them nonetheless.

Dean's eyes thin.

Sam stops shifting, watching warily.

Stupid ghouls ruining stupid everything. Cas can't even walk, not really. Screw them. Screw ghouls, screw hunting, screw stubborn people. Cas is sick of all of it. "Go," he says again, a little too spitefully. "Stop insulting me and go, I'll get out of your way."

"Cas-" Sam says.

Cas cuts him off, using the crutch to point toward the road and somehow managing to keep upright. "Go!"

Dean, getting in the car, staring at Cas as he pulls away, doesn't look as happy as Cas expects him to.

Cas limps unsteadily. Easier alone, anyway. Always has been. The nearest car is a red Toyota. Cas is always prepared, coat full of things he might need. He picks the lock, jump-starts it, and oh, right, it sucks to drive because his legs were trashed by eerie, ugly ghouls. Well, who cares? Cas is driving anyway.

He doesn't have a destination in mind, not really. Or maybe he does, because he ends up at a back entrance to the grand canyon, a few miles south of where Sam and Dean were planning to go. Crocotta, right.

Cas can handle a crocotta. Easy. Impalement through the spine, how hard is that? Not hard. Just one clean stab with any blade. Easy.

As easy as a pair of ghouls haunting a cemetery. He's an idiot if he thinks he can take on a crocotta alone like this.

So, he's an idiot, he always has been. It's the one thing everyone agrees on.

No. No, he's not.

But he gets out of the car anyway, because look at that, that looks like a swarm of flies. Crocottas and filth. Lovely.

He means to get out. Doesn't, because it's too much of a hassle and he's smarter than that. Really, he just pops the door open and moves his leg so that he's resting on the edge of the seat _ready_ to get out. Just in case. Just because it's good to be prepared. Because he doesn't know what he's doing here.

He left his computer. It's in the impala or back at the motel or god knows where, and what does it matter? It was a stupid computer anyway.

Cas has his phone though. And when it dings, he's half-expecting it to be the crocotta saying 'come to me.' It's Bobby instead, saying he found Castiel's other blade. The one he lost fighting the griffin. Found it in the pile of junk that was stacked like the tower of babel and it's a surprise to Cas because Cas hadn't even known Bobby was sorting through it. And Bobby is telling Cas to come get it and so Cas closes the car door and lea-

Cas can't leave. Sam and Dean are morons, bound to get themselves in trouble, and Cas should be here to pull them back out. It's only fair, after all, since they just saved him from face-eating ghouls.

_Come to me_, something whispers. No, not really, but Cas pretends to hear it anyway. It's his excuse to get out of the car. Crocotta nearby, people could be in danger. Obviously, as someone trained in the supernatural, Castiel has to help before someone gets hurt.

_Come to me._ "Okay, alright." It makes Cas feel better to respond aloud as he trudges over the rocky terrain, because maybe he actually did hear a voice. He wonders whose voice he would hear. The crocotta usually mimics loved ones. Loved ones, right. The thought is a little sobering.

Cas is an idiot. What is he doing, limping through the trees, loud and exposed and slow? As though he could actually do anything. The grand canyon is huge and this crocotta could be anywhere, could have left to find a new hunting ground, for all Cas knows.

_Come to_—

"Hello?" That's not Cas, not any voice he knows. It's female. A young female.

More flies swarm past and Castiel gets a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Where are you?" The female voice again. "Can you follow my voice?"

Castiel falls motionless, searching for the source, leaning heavily on the crutch trying to stay braced.

Another voice sounds in the distance, even younger, half-sobbing. "I can't. Come to _me_."

Oh. Oh, no. Castiel might have actually managed to come across the crocotta somehow.

"I'm trying," the young woman says.

"No, hey," Cas says. Shouts, really, but who could blame him?

"_Come to me,_" the little girl—the crocotta—says, and says it so forcefully that Castiel finds himself jolting forward, pulled toward the sound.

He stumbles over his bad ankle and just manages to get the crutch back beneath him. "No!" he shouts. "There are cougar traps, just wait! Nobody move!" He still can't see them. His own voice is echoing back, bouncing off the canyon walls. They could be anywhere. "I'll shoot you, I'll shoot you, don't move!" Cas keeps hobbling forward. Hobbling and hobbling, and oh, a cliff, would you look at that? That's just perfect.

It is, actually, because he can see them now. See the young woman searching, walking down below through widely spread trees, see the little girl waiting for her prey.

Cas drops the crutch and sits awkwardly, falling fast, hands digging into the pockets of his trenchcoat for a gun.

Who said it has to be a knife that impales the crocotta spine? Bullets can impale just as well. Can bullets impale?

The recoil of the gun is painful and yeah, no, bullets can't impale things. That, or Cas missed the spine. It makes the crocotta turn, though, so that's neat.

Until it's not, because the crocotta turned and she doesn't look happy and maybe that wasn't the greatest thing to try.

She's older than she sounds. And then she sounds older. "Castiel," she says. And she's Anna. She has Anna's voice. A voice Castiel hasn't heard for a decade. His sister's voice. "Won't you come? Don't you love me? Come here, angel, let me sing to you."

The cliff. She's just past the cliff. But it's not her. It's not her.

The woman has stopped now. The other one. The real one. Stopped, but much too close to the crocotta.

Castiel fumbles to get the gun back up. Maybe he just missed the spine. He thinks he just missed the spine. _Hopefully_, he just missed the—

The second round of shots has the crocotta flinching back, baring sharp teeth as she stumbles away from the gunfire and farther into the trees.

There's not much left to go wrong at this point. But it does. Somehow, it does.

"Stop!" The woman is barreling forward, erasing her distance to the crocotta, running without looking because she's looking up the cliff at Cas.

It always does.

But Cas prepares for that. Cas prepares for everything. And when the crocotta's jaw unhinges and she tackles the real woman, hovering over her, sucking at her soul—

Cas is woefully unprepared. More than woefully. He's a liability, because he can't throw anything that far and straight and not risk killing the woman. Can't get down the stupid, easy little cliff. Cas's almost sprains his arm, fumbling over his pockets, desperate for something useful. He prepared for this, he knows he did. He prepares for everything.

He's taking too long. She's dying.

Cas pulls out the next thing his fingers land on. A flash grenade. He rips it forward, chucking it as fast as he can, closing his eyes to avoid the blinding flare.

It's a cliff. A small cliff, maybe twenty feet high. That's not too high, right? Yes, yes, it is, it's way too high. Cas can't even _walk_, really. Which is, of course, the reason he falls more than anything else, trying to scale the cliff. He tears his sling off, throws the crutch down, and follows it. His arms don't want to work. Nice little rock jutting out there, perfect to grab. Come on, come on, stupid fingers, grab it. He cuts the palm of his hand instead. He doesn't have time for this. _She_ doesn't have time for this. Cas's ankle won't take any weight, won't grab the cliff face. He slides, he supposes, later, when he has time to suppose. Slides down the face of the cliff, landing in a heap, the crutch two feet too far to reach when his back and arms and legs refuse to work.

That's okay. Cas has another flash grenade. He's not sure the first one really did anything, but he throws the second one anyway. It booms like a cannon against the canyon walls; deafening, and Cas loses what little sound he'd had left.

The stupid, ugly, too-short crutch. Cas can't get it to work the way he wants it to. Can't get his weight back up. He doesn't need to use it the right way, he just needs to _use _it. Cas moves drunkenly toward where the crocotta was, eyes burning because he opened them a second too soon.

They're not there. They're not there, and Cas can't hear them and he's an idiot.

Because he misoriented himself when he fell and they —yep, there they are, the other way, the crocotta shaking her head like she's trying to clear it, half a foot from a still body.

Cas pulls his blade. Impalement through the spine. Easy.

If he could walk successfully. Which he can, obviously, because he's not a baby in a trenchcoat, thank you very much.

It is easy. The crocotta is still shaking off blindness, unable to hear him coming, and the blade goes cleanly through the back of her neck. Easiest kill Cas has had in a while. The crocotta falls, body crumpling onto the rock.

Cas hobbles the last few feet to the young woman, splayed out on her back, eyes closed, unmoving. He drops down beside her. He tries to bend forward to check for a pulse but his back refuses.

That, of course, is when Sam and Dean show up. Cas is just starting to pick up sound again, and he misses most of their approach.

Dean swears as he drops down next to Cas, and Cas startles because he hadn't heard him. Startles painfully, his back spasming because the muscles just don't work today.

"Is she..." Cas starts to ask.

Dean takes her pulse and lets out a breath. "She's alive," he says, and then he's shoving Cas aside and picking her up.

Dean starts back the way he came. Sam stops to hold out a hand for Cas, even bending over to grab his arms.

Cas shoves him away. "Get off me." He uses a nearby tree to stand, crutch more hindrance than help. Cas shoves it at Sam. "Take this stupid thing."

Sam rights it, trying to set it back beneath Cas's shoulder.

Cas doesn't want it. He takes it anyway, because he needs it and he's trying so very, very hard to not be an idiot. "Just go. Don't wait for me. Get her to a hospital."

_What happened? What are you doing here, Cas? How'd you get here? I thought you agreed not to come. _Cas is just waiting to be berated, because Sam's shaking his head at him.

"Come on," Sam says.

Cas hobbles after him to the impala.

"What happened to your sling?" Sam asks.

"I didn't like the color," Cas tells him.

"Black just doesn't go with anything," Sam agrees.

* * *

She's alive. They get her to the hospital and she's alive. Going to stay alive.

Cas stays in the car the whole time, half unwilling and half unable to get out. He still hasn't come down from that hunt, doesn't fully feel like he's back in the impala with Sam and Dean. Well, not _with_ them, of course, because they're in the hospital waiting for news and Cas is in the car, waiting for them.

He loses track of time, sitting there, waiting, trying to find a comfortable position but it's impossible.

He thinks he liked the ghouls better.

Sam and Dean come back.

"She'll be okay," Sam tells Cas. "She's lucky you were there."

"Why were you there?" Dean asks. He's in that space between trying not to be upset and wanting to yell, and it makes his voice come out tight.

Cas is supposed to respond sarcastically here, say a joke, lighten the mood. He can't think of one. "I was trying to be prepared. Be close by in case you needed me. I didn't expect to actually find the crocotta. I honestly don't know why I left the car."

Dean hums. Then he throws something over his shoulder at Cas. Something neon pink. He smirks a little. "Got you a new sling, Sam said you didn't like the color of the last one."

Cas slips it on, unfazed by the hue. "I love it."

"Got you a taller crutch, too," Sam says. "It's in the trunk."

"You guys are so sweet on me."

"Cas," Dean says.

"Hmm?"

"Don't leave the car next time."

They go back to the motel, and Cas is having a hard time getting out of the car and Dean isn't laughing this time.

Sam carries their bags inside, leaving Cas to Dean.

Dean just holds the crutch ready and waits.

Cas finally manages to get out, struggling the few feet to the door of the motel. The lip where the road meets the sidewalk is particularly difficult. He veers toward the nearest seat and sits down. It's actually a decent motel room. It's actually two rooms, one with a bed and couch and the other with two more beds, connected by a door. Cas tips the crutch up against the wall.

Dean sighs, standing in front of him and picking at the fabric of his sleeve. There's blood on it, Cas realizes. Dean helps him pull his coat off, rolls the sleeve up, and sighs. "You ripped your stitches," he says.

"No, I ripped _your_ stitches. They were ugly, I didn't like them."

"You're such a child."

Cas flips up his middle finger. Then he shoves off the couch, bracing himself on the walls as he walks toward the other room. "Wake me when I'm dead."

Sam is in the other room. He looks up when Cas enters, but Cas just shoves off the wall and directs his fall towards one of the beds, burying his face in the pillow. "When I'm _dead_," he repeats, pulling the side of the blanket up and further burying himself.

"That comforter's gross," Sam notes.

"Not as gross as yours, I switched them already."

"I switched them back."

Cas groans, but he doesn't move out from under the covering. "I hate crocottas," he says. "I'm picking the next case, how do you feel about werewolves? Do werewolves sound nice? Let's check Niagara Falls."

"Oh," says Sam, and he sounds surprised.

"Oh, what?"

"I thought you'd want to get your blade back from Bobby first. He called, said he found it, said he called you too."

Cas had forgotten all about that. "Oh." He thinks about that for a second. "Is that a thing? Can we do that?"

"What do mean, 'can we do that?' Why wouldn't we be able to?"

"It's annoying?... It's out of the way?"

Sam moves his chair, Cas can hear it even if he can't see it. "Out of the way of _what_?" Sam asks.

"Niagara Falls, obviously."

"Sam, pop those stitches back in," Dean says from the other room.

Turns out, Cas ripped more than just the ones on his arm. No one is surprised.

"We should have a code."

"What?" Sam is trying to stitch Cas's leg back up.

"You knock on the door and I'll say 'what's there?' and you'll say 'not a ghoul' and we'll know it's safe for you to come in."

"Sure, Cas. You can go tell Dean when I'm done."

Cas doesn't want to move. Isn't sure he can at this point. "Sam," he says.

"What?"

"About that crossroads thing—"

"Later."


End file.
